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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201530">marked me (like a bloodstain)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXBeckyFoo/pseuds/xXBeckyFoo'>xXBeckyFoo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Hermione Granger, Auror Ron Weasley, F/M, Head Auror Harry Potter, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Original Character(s), Werewolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:41:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,968</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXBeckyFoo/pseuds/xXBeckyFoo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione could recognize those silver eyes anywhere. After all, they were the color her nightmares built themselves around. They were the color of her most cherished possession, too. But it couldn't be real. Draco Malfoy couldn't be sat at her favorite cafe -- not when he was serving a life sentence in Azkaban.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott/Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>268</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the taste of regret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>marked me like a bloodstain</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>She could easily kill Ron. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe shock would ripple out among the crowd when his body hit the floor, but no one would point a wand at Hermione to stop her from walking over him to leave the room with her freedom and a little-to-no inkling of guilt. It would just be another Tuesday for the DMLE—Aurors Granger and Weasley at each other’s throats again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although her magic sparked and crackled with every breath, Hermione refused to let it mix with the rage causing a tsunami tide inside of her, threatening to flood past her walls of obedience and skill to stun him with a breathtaking use of wandless magic. Instead, she aimed a right fist into the hollow of his throat. Ron staggered, choking, but recovered quickly enough to lunge forward. His elbow attempted to collide against her ribs, but she ducked from the would-be impact, punching his knee before driving her weight against his midsection. When the momentum flipped his lean frame over, Hermione stomped a bare foot onto his chest, keeping him in place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he did not move to strike, a bell </span>
  <em>
    <span>dinged, dinged, dinged</span>
  </em>
  <span> over Hermione’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck sakes, mate,” said Harry, squatting to look down at Ron’s pained, red face. “I told you not to go one-on-one with her when she’s mad at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s always mad at me,” Ron groaned, closing his eyes as he snaked fingers around Hermione’s ankle, squeezing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With her nose wrinkling in irritation, Hermione subdued the particles of her magic that were untamable against raw emotion. While she was indeed furious with Ron, she chose to remember she quite loved the idiot; she took her foot off his chest before waving a wrist to help him into a sitting position. She felt a lecture pool at the tip of her tongue, but before it could come out in a reprimanding tone all too familiar from their school days, an arm wrapped around Hermione’s sweaty, sore shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaise Zabini was smirking, exposing sharp, blinding-white teeth as his free hand extended out to the other gathered Aurors. “Right. Pay up now. I told you Granger wouldn’t make it until the end of the week before maiming Weasley in one manner or another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione shoved him off, but turned her frown at Harry when he pulled out a few galleons from the pocket of his sweatpants. “Harry! You’re not supposed to make wagers, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>Head Auror</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is why I had a little more faith that you’d resist seeking vengeance against your own partner—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t vengeance,” hissed Hermione, her magic causing the lights of the training room to flicker. She took a breath as Harry gave her a pointed look and the others leered. “We’re practicing physical defensive tactics. It’s not my fault Ronald can’t last more than a minute with a woman, is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi!” With difficulty, Ron pulled himself back up to his feet. He started to glare down at her, but the fire in her gaze scorched him a few paces back. “I last long enough, all right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaise scoffed at the remark as he counted his winnings. “Never with Granger,” he sneered. “It’s probably why she broke up with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We never dated!” both Hermione and Ron shot back, causing the round of laughter around them to echo louder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep breath of his own, Ron managed to turn them away from their nosy comrades, his fingers circling Hermione’s arms as he took a cautious step forward. “How many times am I going to have to say sorry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be sorry,” she told him, meeting his blue eyes with the same indignation that started them on the wrong foot the day before, “be </span>
  <em>
    <span>careful</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You weren’t,” she interrupted, driving her index finger into his chest. Ron winced at the sharp poke but did not move away. “You undermined an order. And not even my own, but our Head Auror’s. We were supposed to get the wards down, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But you—Merlin, Ronald, you still don’t use your eyes. You run headfirst into danger, but I can’t afford to only be led by blind courage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the same finger she had used to scold him, Hermione traced the left side of her face. Ron’s gaze glistened under the light of the training room, guilt brimming at the wandless spell that ended the glamour charm she had placed on herself that morning. Potions were effective for bruises and scrapes collected on a routine raid, but they hardly treated residue of dark magic when out hunting monsters. That side of her face was covered in a violet shade, tawny skin painted in midnight shadows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Mione, I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took his right hand and brought it to her chest, squeezing. “I’m livid, but I don’t need an apology. You’re my partner and I trust you with my life. Always have and always will, prat. But I just need you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> first, okay? Because this—” she ran a fingertip across her cheek again, “this really isn’t aiding my chances in sleeping with Zabini. You know he likes his lovers dainty and pretty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaise rolled his eyes as she grinned, Ron and the others snickering at him now as he and Hermione turned back to the huddle. “Like it’s my doing that Luna and Theo have lithe bodies? Granger’s obsession with yoga did that, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can sound a little more grateful for it, mate,” said Miles Bulstrode, smirking as he crossed his arms over his bare, muscular chest, obscuring the faint pink scars of the surgery that made him finally feel at home in his own body. “I know I am. Granger taught Parvati how to do this thing where she stretches her leg way—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough,” said Hermione with a grimace, her previous wrath melting into trivial annoyance. “I can’t have anything to myself without you lot perverting it somehow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wrapping an arm around her again, Blaise pressed a gentle kiss on the bruised side of Hermione’s face. “You might be all banged up, Granger, but you’re still very pretty. If you want an invitation to our bed, all you need is ask. You know Luna nor Theo would mind a fourth. If that’s too crowded, I have a tame ex-boyfriend I can set you up with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luna and Theo are your only redeeming qualities, Zabini,” huffed Hermione, but her cheeks still tinted red at the seductive glimmer of his dark gaze, “and aside from them, your tastes are questionable. Need we all recall when you sent me on a blind date with a Flint?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a chorus of heckling resounding around the training room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” protested Blaise immediately at the sound. “I was told </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> Flint was the only good apple on their rotten, pureblood tree. We were both conned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mate, you introduced me to a vampire last month—</span>
  <em>
    <span>without</span>
  </em>
  <span> telling me she was one. Hell of a surprise at the end of that date,” said Harry, arching his neck back to show where two small, red holes were scabbing over on the curve of his throat. “I like biters, but I like more to be alive after it, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s a countess from Transylvania, Potter! I thought it was obvious she was a vampire!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles pushed Blaise into the inner ring of their hand-to-hand training floor. “Before I reacquainted with ‘Vati, you sent me on a date with someone who ended up being my cousin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaise blocked the fist that came his way, his forearm shooting up to protect his nose. His eyes narrowed at his partner, but a sneer worthy of both their Slytherin ties formed as he said, “That was just me having a laugh, mate. Besides,” he circled Miles, aiming a jab the latter was skillfully able to elude, “aren’t all Bulstrodes inbred, anyway?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione rolled her eyes when Miles lunged, his elbow repeatedly stabbing into Blaise’s ribs. When they both fell from the imbalance of both their bodies trying to outweigh the other, the Aurors rushed forward, cheering and hurling violent encouragements as Ron started taking bets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to see the DMLE’s budget is being put to productive use—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Minister,” said Harry, startled, shoving his galleons back into the pocket of his sweatpants as Kingsley Shacklebolt and a young, nervous assistant stepped further into the training room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantly, the Aurors fell in line with Hermione, arms pinned to their sides and all previous taunting a faint echo disappearing into the glass walls. Miles pulled Blaise up from the practice ring, both masking their embarrassment as Harry glared at them before fixing his eyes upon the Minister. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At ease,” said Kingsley, the corner of his mouth showing a shadow of a grin. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes again; while the Minister was known for his austere persona, she knew he was often entertained by the strong comradeship Harry had forged among and between the Aurors. “Robards insisted his Aurors did not need hand-to-hand combat training, but I trust it helps the pent up aggression at the very least?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some more than others,” mumbled Ron under his breath, earning him a pinch from Hermione. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No longer the amused best friend, Harry stood tall and firm, the epitome of a no-nonsense Head Auror that gave a warning scowl at Aurors Granger and Weasley to cease all petty bickering. “We were just finishing up here, sir,” he explained, arms crossing over an old, frayed hoodie. “We’ll get changed and meet Robards down at the—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The debriefing for the Giles case can be moved for another time,” said Kingsley, his arm extending out. Instantly, the nervous assistant shadowing him lurched forward, placing a file in his awaiting hand. “I am afraid we have other pressing issues to tend to. Atlas Greyback has resurfaced.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione stiffened at the name, her body stinging from old traces of dark magic caused by another catastrophic raid that still haunted her to this day. Beside her, Ron’s hands balled into white-knuckled fists and other Aurors shifted uneasily in their place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione was impressed he found enough self-restraint to close it. While he never shied away from dropping the occasional curse word, all deriving from his favorite, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, becoming Head Auror had refined his manners. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Somewhat</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Hermione mused as he tore into the file the Minister handed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the course of her career as a dark wizard catcher that started long before the DMLE, Hermione learned to build profiles on people. She could take even the most minuscule, irrelevant detail about someone and form theories of behavioral patterns and psychological state. University courses had been taken to further hone this skill, but Hermione had originally learned this trait from studying Harry. Since childhood she watched him, discovering what every shade of green in his eyes meant, how the lines around his mouth only formed when he was aggravated or nervous, or how he only rubbed the back of his neck when he was coming up with a plan that was as ridiculous as it was reckless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the way he ran his palm over his chin, Hermione knew Harry was thinking</span>
  <em>
    <span> fuck, fuck, fucking hell, fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Greyback killed three Aurors,” Harry said through gritted teeth, looking up from the file in his grip. He spared Kingsley a frown before turning to his Aurors. “One of them was Phillipa Hugh. Luke Jasper’s partner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bloody hell,” Ron was the first to grit out, his hands still angry fists at his sides. “MACUSA is involved now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It happened in the States,” Kingsley informed. “Head Auror Jasper sent his team to Nevada after a source confirmed seeing werewolves at a Te-Moak Tribe reservation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione’s fingers twitched, wanting to yank the file from Harry so she could read all the details herself. “What’s strange about that? The Indigenous wizarding community has always been welcoming to all magical creatures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Travers was spotted with the pack,” Harry told her, extending the file out in her direction. Hermione almost smiled; she knew him like the back of her hand, but Harry knew her like the back of his own, too. “A fugitive Death Eater with werewolves? Jasper was smart to know something was wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not smart enough to heed our warnings about Atlas Greyback,” Blaise offered bitterly, his arms crossing over his chest as the other Aurors agreed with his comment. “Last year, after the pup attempted to break out daddy dearest from Azkaban, we warned MACUSA and Ministère des Affaires he would be heading for them. After the bloodbath Greyback left here, only the French Ministry listened and provided help to track him down. MACUSA didn’t even entertain the idea of extradition between our governments. They’re equally as guilty as Greyback for the loss of those Aurors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As her fellow comrades grew louder, Hermione lingered at the crime scene photographs attached to the file. She had encountered Aurors from other nations throughout her time in the DMLE, and Phillipa Hugh had been one of them. Cruelly beautiful, with sharp features, porcelain skin, and white-blonde hair that created a river of light even in the treacherous night. Her eyes, rimmed with thick, luscious lashes, had been as cold and magnificent as the silver moon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ghost from a lost moment in time; that’s what Phillipa Hugh had always reminded Hermione of the few times they had crossed paths. A name that tasted like crisp apples and regret formed at the tip of her tongue, but Hermione swallowed it down to look up at Harry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He, of course, was already watching her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not wrong about MACUSA failing to understand the gravity of a Greyback putting a pack together,” Kingsley said to Blaise, but his dark eyes looked upon all those still lined up before him. “But they know now—at a devastating price, but they know. You are going to find Atlas Greyback and bring him to face our Ministry’s justice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MACUSA agreed to our extradition proposal?” asked Miles, thick, russet brows furrowing together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t,” said Hermione, closing the file, refusing to stare at Phillipa Hugh’s decapitated body any longer. Instead, she zeroed in on Kinglsey sliding his hands into the pocket of his robes. He did not have a lot of visible tells as Minister for Magic, but she had years of experience playing card games against him to know when he was hiding something. “Jasper is coming here, isn’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kingsley did not bother to hide the sly grin he had reserved for her, the one that always said </span>
  <em>
    <span>you clever, clever girl.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Robards is setting up a portkey for Head Auror Jasper and his team right now. They should be arriving this evening.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck sakes—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Minister, you can’t expect us to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Head Auror Jasper is a fucking twat—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing will get done—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those MACUSA Aurors don’t know the meaning of cooperation—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Enough!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” growled Harry, instantly silencing the protests echoing across the training room. Teeth clamped down into bottom lips, but that did not stop the Aurors from glaring at both their Head Auror and their Minister. Hermione caught the darkening hue of Harry’s eyes under the harsh light as he said, “This isn’t a scrimmage against Jasper and his team. Our job and theirs is to capture Greyback. And that’s what we’re going to do, understood? No more dead comrades.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione noticed that Kingsley kept his hands inside his pockets, but the glimmer of amusement in his eyes was long gone now, too. “Break for lunch,” he said to them, trying for a smile that looked more like a scowl. “Best wash up first. The smell and state of some of you. Ron, I’m guessing Hermione knocked you flat on your back as payback for that raid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all,” huffed Ron, frowning as Miles punched his arm, laughing as the others started making way for the double doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t Luke Jasper have a thing for you, Granger?” With his arm around her waist, Blaise led Hermione to the exit. “I vividly remember him staring at your arse the last time we ended up in New York.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. He liked blondes like Phillipa Hugh,” she told him as she looked behind her shoulder, watching as Kingsley’s assistant handed Harry another file. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever was inside, it made Harry rub the back of his neck aggressively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As did you. Once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione whirled around, the doors closing behind her as she glared at Blaise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was always a dangerous mirth that made Blaise Zabini’s lips form a permanent smirk; most of the time, Hermione could handle what was behind it. He was always looking for a laugh, but he knew where the line was. Blaise liked to toe or jump over everyone else’s, but never hers. He knew better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, Blaise had implied that Hermione knew a name that tasted like crisp apples and regret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m referring to Cormac McLaggen, of course,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Can’t believe you went out on a date with him. Did you think his personality had changed after </span>
  <em>
    <span>Witch Weekly </span>
  </em>
  <span>named him Most Eligible Bachelor over Potter? Fuck sakes, Granger. If you need a shag that badly, I can let you borrow my blonde. Luna’s always willing. Me too, of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione scoffed, shoving him off before turning into the women’s shower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>__________</b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite the fast-paced life of an Auror, Hermione always had her wits about her. It was crucial, of course; this job did not allow room for even the smallest error, on or off the field. Everything had to be tidy and concise. Of course, she excelled at it far better than her fellow Aurors: frequently being the one to catch a hole in a report that the accused could easily wiggle through if their solicitor knew where to look, or blocking a wayward curse from touching a person regardless of what side of the law they stood at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, after news broke out in the DMLE that MACUSA was sending their Head Auror, it seemed Hermione was the only one unable to focus. There was always chaos in the department, especially if Robards had chewed up and spat out Aurors for breakfast—these being Hermione and Ron after the failed raid a day prior—but they were focused. While they had hosted foreign Head Aurors before, Luke Jasper was the worst. Most, like Blaise and Ron, would happily tell him to fuck off, willingly choosing to work on tedious paperwork rather than share a case with the American. Still, they knew better than to embarrass Harry and the department, so, grudgingly, they tidied their desks, labeled their files, and charmed their robes to be wrinkle-free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione should have been following their lead, or by the very least start compiling the last known whereabouts of Atlas Greyback before MACUSA found him, but her sharp mind kept fraying at the edges, letting images of Phillipa Hugh in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tried replacing the pictures in Kingsley’s file with the few times Hermione had met the fallen Auror, but the gruesome scene always reappeared. Greyback and his followers had left bodies in their wake before, each a gift honoring the leader of their wolfpack imprisoned in Azkaban, but nothing had looked quite like Phillipa Hugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Atlas Greyback was tired of hiding. That much Hermione knew. And the more restless and impatient he became from having to lurk in the shadows, his father still in a cold, damp cellar with a collar around his neck, the more death and chaos he would leave behind him for Hermione and the Aurors to clean up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They would stop him, of course. They had to. But the image of what was left of Phillipa Hugh burned and gnawed at Hermione’s insides because it could have been her. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been her if Harry had been a second too late the last time they faced the wolfpack. And they tried so hard for it to be her—after all, who was a better offering to Fenrir Greyback than the girl who put him in Azkaban? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dios mio!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” There were hands around Hermione’s face, squeezing and prodding. She had been a moment away from conjuring a Shield Charm, but outraged, kind hazel eyes she was all too familiar with came into focus. “Someone ruined you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oddly enough, Señora Herrera, that’s not the first time I hear that,” Hermione told the woman with a laugh, masking the shudder she felt across her shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> No room for error meant vacating the Ministry with complete knowledge of leaving the place—as well as remembering to reinforce glamour charms when crossing over to the muggle world, especially when dark magic had turned her skin an unnatural shade of purple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Señora Herrera tilted Hermione’s chin up to the fluorescent lights of her cafe, further scrutinizing the bruising like she could reprimand it away. While Hermione was convinced if there was anyone that could do just that, aside from Mrs. Weasley, Señora Herrera seemed to have accepted that she could not. As such, she fixed her disapproving glare back on Hermione. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This job of yours,” she started, her tone firm despite her thumb gently rubbing a comforting trail under the damage, “is dangerous. When will you see it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>niña</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Let someone else save the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dangerous, sure, Hermione would always agree to that, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausting</span>
  </em>
  <span> seemed like a better description most days. Still, she did not say this to the muggle woman, nor did she tell her she had been saving the world since she was a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And a bruised face was not the worst mark her body had suffered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I took an oath,” Hermione said instead with a smile she knew Señora Herrera could see right through. “You know, serve Queen and the office of constable with integrity and diligence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Señora Herrera huffed. “I don’t much trust the police, but if it had to be anyone, I can sleep better knowing there are capable people like yourself out there protecting their community. Unlike that partner of yours,” she added with an unimpressed wrinkle of her nose, a reaction Ron tended to incite without even being present. She ran her thumb over Hermione’s aching skin once more before crossing her arms over her flour-stained apron. “Was Constable Weasley the cause of this? The last time he was distracted you almost lost an arm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione laughed as she followed Señora Herrera further into her shop, leaning against the counter as the latter walked behind it. “In his defense, </span>
  <em>
    <span>señora</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ron had never seen a Nandos and was legitimately excited. But, no,” she then added, exhaling out her remaining annoyance toward her best friend, “he wasn’t at fault. Ron would never let me get hurt. This was an unexpected accident. Something, of course, I can’t divulge. Police matters and all that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course. The world is so much safer because Constable Granger wakes up with a keen sense of justice—” The metal kitchen door opened and Ximena, Señora Herrera’s daughter, walked out with a white paper bag and a coffee cup that made Hermione beam. She could smell the </span>
  <em>
    <span>cafe de olla</span>
  </em>
  <span> and portobello panini from the short distance. “No offense, but your warrior-princesses-meets-pure-angel thing is a little annoying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Señora Herrera smacked the back of her daughter’s head and Hermione let out a squeak of protest when the styrofoam cup threatened to fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oye</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Ximena hissed, dodging her mother’s hand again as she extended the food and drink to Hermione’s begging fingers. “I said no offense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d do well to follow her example, Ximena. She is the same age as you, twenty-six and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m actually twenty-three—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With a proper career, a salary, and some sense of stability” continued Señora Herrera, ignoring the way Ximena snorted at Hermione’s correction. “What are you doing exactly? Other than protesting like a child when I’m peeling you off your bed because you were partying well into daylight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ximena tossed her long, dark hair behind her shoulder, her red-painted mouth pulling into a grin. “David finally asked me over to his,” she told Hermione. “Let’s just say dinner turned to breakfast, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, he’s the banker, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that’s a man with a salary,” Ximena laughed, rolling her eyes as Señora Herrera frowned. “But don’t you be fooled by </span>
  <em>
    <span>mama’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> praise, Hermione,” she then added, reaching into the latter’s paper bag to pull out a chip. “Naturally, she wanted me to have a profession when we migrated to London, but her idea of a fulfilling life for a woman still requires a husband and half a dozen children. I’m working on the husband part. You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crisp apples and regret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione took a sip of her steaming coffee to keep the taste from pooling in her mouth. “I’m just working,” she offered with a laugh of her own, her tongue burning hot enough to melt away the memory that tried to resurface. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ximena let out a loud snort, propping her elbows onto the counter as she leaned closer toward Hermione, her grin still in place. “For the record, if you ever decided to run for Parliament, I’d vote for you. That keen sense of justice, you know? Oh,” she added, reaching into the bag to steal another chip, “and if you’re ever looking for a husband, mama is willing to offer up my brother’s hand in marriage. It’s the only reason why she’s been giving you free food all this time. She wants to lure you in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Basta</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Señora Herrera impatiently, tugging on Ximena’s elbow to get her upright. “Go on and check on table six.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t your son nineteen?” asked Hermione with a raised brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Señora Herrera rolled her eyes in perfect imitation of her daughter. “Don’t listen to that girl. But, in case you do decide to date, my Fernando </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> an amazing young man. He’s studying to be a doctor, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione took a slow drink of her coffee, her smile growing wider. “Toss in a few of your famous </span>
  <em>
    <span>pan dulces</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I’ll consider—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thought she had swallowed the memory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, it had tumbled out of her head, past the torn edges those images of Phillipa Hugh had created. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hermione?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had started off as only a glimmer before transforming into a beacon, like white moonlight weaving through leaves before the path cleared and the moon crashed and cracked the dark, empty night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione could recognize those silver eyes and platinum-white hair anywhere. After all, they were the colors her nightmares built themselves around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were the colors of her most cherished possession. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now there he sat, in a small table tucked into the furthest corner of the cafe, his eyes on her like he had been waiting for her to find him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you all right, niña?” A hand squeezed hers, forcing her mind to come reeling back into itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hermione hissed from the impact, pulling her fingers from Señora Herrera’s grip. “I, uh,” she tried to clear her throat, tried to gather all semblance of composure, but she could still see him from the corner of her eye, “I’ve got to get back. Thank you for the food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you—?”</span>
</p><p><span>She did not hear the rest; as Hermione turned on her heels, her eardrums pulsed with her terrified heartbeat, each throb echoing </span><em><span>it’s</span></em> <em><span>not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>And it wasn’t, Hermione knew that, because Draco Malfoy could not be sat at her favorite cafe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not when he was serving a life sentence at Azkaban.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. creating ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘cause when i’d fight you used to tell me i was brave </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Liars, for the most part, had the tendency to avoid eye contact when misconstruing the truth. </p><p>Hermione had seen this often: offenders fidgeting in their seats, eyes focusing anywhere inside the interrogation room but at her or the evidence in front of them, Miles Bulstrode looking at her hair when asked if he filed his paperwork according to her own effective system, George Weasley rolling his eyes way too often when questioned if the newest explosion in Diagon Alley was a direct consequence of one of his experiments, and her own gaze drifting to the left, anywhere except the glistening blue of Ron’s eyes when, years ago, he pleaded<em> just...tell me why,‘Mione. Why him? </em> (she never turned to him when she said <em> I don’t know why </em>).</p><p>In the years since their childhood, Hermione had discovered that Harry, because of his own learned survival skills when living with the Dursleys, kept eye contact when he was lying through his teeth. </p><p>Hermione had seen this often: eleven years old, telling her he wasn’t still looking for the Mirror of Erised, thirteen years old, promising he’d still choose not to kill Pettigrew if they turned back time once more, fifteen years old, chanting over and over again that he was fine, and yes, he was sleeping well, too, seventeen years old, fury in his emerald eyes when he told Ron to leave, and, now, at twenty-three years old, staring unmoved into her brown gaze when her unexpected question made him look up from the mountain of legal documents and victims the Greybacks had left behind.</p><p>And yet, despite knowing this tell, she believed him. For years she believed Harry when he looked her in the eye.</p><p>For a moment, Hermione had assumed she was imagining things. Although infrequent, her repressed memories had managed to break free from the dark, occluded parts of her mind before—a consequence of an overworked one, especially when now triggered by the violent, unforeseen passing of Phillipa Hugh, someone whom Hermione, no matter how hard she fought against it, connected to someone else. She would, of course, manage to stop her walls from shaking, tucking those memories back where they belonged, buried and neglected, but, if even for an unwilling second, she remembered.</p><p>Vividly, achingly so, she remembered Draco Malfoy.  </p><p>On the way back to the Ministry, her favorite coffee growing cold and forgotten in her hands, she allowed herself to ponder the opposite. What if she had <em> not </em> imagined him there, sat in Señora Herrera’s shop, scattered scars across the right side of his face? White-blond hair longer, silkier, and definitely devoid of the grime and blood she had once felt under her bruised hands? Silver eyes bright and enthralling as the treacherous moon, calling out to her the same way they had long ago, only this time there had been no trace of his loathing, fury, and grief. </p><p>If she had the courage to shatter the concrete barriers she set up around the most vulnerable pieces of herself, Hermione would pull out every fragment of time where Malfoy appeared and lay them out in front of herself. She’d take a magnifying glass, hoping sunlight would soak in through the lens, turning each recollection into ash so she could finally be free of him.</p><p>But she never would. She knew that all too well.</p><p>Not when his colors were what her nightmares built themselves around.</p><p>Not when his colors were the same shades as her most cherished possession, too.</p><p>“Granger,” Miles scrambled out from behind his desk when he saw her enter the bullpen, his eyes wide in panic. “I can’t find the fucking werewolf registration of September 2001. I thought we had it filed with all the other Atlas Greyback shit, but it’s not—”</p><p>“None of the werewolf registrations are filed under the DMLE. The DRCMC archives those. Is Harry in his office?”</p><p>Miles reached an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, pressing a kiss on the tender, stinging side of her face. “You’re a lifesaver, Granger. You know that, right? Potter, Robards, and the Minister would all have my head if I didn’t have my share of the case ready.”</p><p>“Is that from Herrera’s Cafe?” Ron wheeled his chair across to Miles’ side, nose high as he sniffed in the direction of her paper bag. “Did Lucinda send anything for me? Sweet bread? Chips?”</p><p>“You know Señora Herrera doesn’t like you using her first name,” Hermione told him, no reprimand underlining the words as she handed him her food and coffee. “Is Harry in his office?”</p><p>“Should be. He’s got ten minutes before he’s expected to meet Robards so they can greet MACUSA’s Head Twat together,” scoffed Ron, but one bite into her portobello panini replaced his annoyance with a grin. </p><p>Swiping an archive from the messy, tall pile on Miles’ desk, Hermione made way towards Harry’s office. She could see him through the thick glass walls encasing him, a file of his own practically plastered flat against his face. The Head Auror’s office came with a nifty one-way charm, allowing him to look out at his team without them being able to do so in return. It put most of the other Aurors on edge, thinking their superior was scrutinizing every move they made, but those with rank knew Harry hardly used it. He wanted everyone (arrogant, ancient Heads of Departments mostly) to see him neck-deep in his work, fighting for justice with a quill or wand in hand, earning his title despite his age or fame.</p><p>Hermione had spent most of their Hogwarts years trying to get him to sit still at a desk, buckling down on his assignments without getting distracted by Ron’s whining, Fred and George’s pranks, quidditch matters, or, worse, the latest plot to have him killed. So when he made it to that office, she often stopped at his door, growing misty-eyed and proud at what the scrawny little boy she had met on the train had accomplished. This time, before bringing up her knuckles against the glass, all she could think was <em> please don’t look at me, Harry.  </em></p><p>“Robards wants me to present Jasper with the extradition proposal again,” he told her when a wave of his wrist allowed her in. His eyes were still glued on his paperwork. “He forgets that Jasper doesn’t have the kind of power to approve any terms. And that MACUSA runs on its own jurisdiction.”</p><p>“And bitter history,” Hermione said, each word slow and brittle. “They never forgave or trusted our Ministry after what happened with Grindelwald.”</p><p>Harry snorted, placing the file back onto his desk. He removed his quill from its inkpot, aggressively scratching out a line before scribbling something in. “Maybe if the International Confederation of Wizards agreed on a proper law that benefited every government—”</p><p>“No independent government likes to be told how to run its country. Especially MACUSA,” she reminded him as she closed the door, taking a step forward. “Harry, listen, about this Greyback case—”</p><p>“Fucking Head Auror Jasper,” he said with a grunt, his left hand coming up to his temple, rubbing clockwise. “Yeah, I know. I hate the dickhead, too. But what other option do we have?”</p><p>She took a step closer toward his desk, her fingers grasping the back of one of the vacant chairs across from him. “What if we consulted outside the DMLE? Fenrir Greyback won’t talk, we know that. We’ve tried that. And even I can agree we’ve exhausted the records we do have. So what if we questioned someone else who has intel on his original pack?”</p><p>“You have sway with some werewolves, Hermione, but not the ones that used to belong to him.”</p><p>“I’m not talking about werewolves.” She watched him raise a brow without looking up, flipping through another page. “Let’s talk to a Death Eater who served alongside Fenrir Greyback.”</p><p>“The only Death Eater who’s always willing to talk for a chance at a sentence reduction is Crabbe Sr.,” he said with a snort. “And we both know he’s as useless as—”</p><p>“Not him. <em> Malfoy </em>.” His hand stilled, the thin, fragile spine of his quill suffering a firm grip. “I want to consult with Draco Malfoy.”</p><p>
  <em> Please don’t look at me, Harry.  </em>
</p><p>He released his quill, bringing both hands to his face. They slipped beneath his glasses, rubbing at his eyes before they opened and stared right at her.</p><p>“Hermione,” Harry said her name the same way he had back in their Sixth Year, back when he assured her he wasn’t stealing tips and unknown spells from the Half-Blood Prince. “Draco Malfoy is serving a life sentence in solitary confinement. Just like his father is. You know that.”</p><p>“Yes,” she swallowed the bitter, sharp taste pooling in her mouth. “For war crimes committed in Voldemort’s name. <em> I know. </em> But they were both privy to other Death Eaters and Greyback was one of them.”</p><p>He didn’t blink when her nails dug into the leather of his chair. “Even if I had the level of clearance to get a meeting with either of them, can we really trust the words of two convicted murderers?”</p><p>“What about Mrs. Malfoy, then? We could find her and—”</p><p>“Listen,” Harry cleared his throat, closing the file with angry ink still wet on the page. His right hand snaked to the back of his neck, fingertips pressing hard into the base. “Robards and the Minister think it would be a liability to have you on this case.”</p><p>“<em> Excuse me? </em>”</p><p>Just as Hermione was well-versed in Harry’s mannerisms and emotional state, he could write a novel on her, too. While she had surveyed him the same way she used to watch the plants her mother once grew, jotting down every new detail, every centimeter of growth to better understand them, Harry had picked up his information through experience. He sometimes still complained about a tender spot on his shoulder where she often swatted him with a textbook; he knew what signs to look out for when Hermione was going in for the kill.</p><p>Still, he carried on. Never looking away.</p><p>“The last time we encountered Atlas Greyback...Fuck, I don’t even want to think about it, Hermione. I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened to you.”</p><p>“Did you agree to pull me out of this case, Harry Potter?”</p><p>“Earlier, in the training room, you said you couldn’t afford to—”</p><p>“Don’t,” she hissed, a nonverbal shoving the chair away. “Don’t twist my words. You know exactly what I meant. Being unprepared, being reckless causes more injuries and fatalities than—”</p><p>“We need someone to finish up the Giles case. And you have a close connection with the key witness. If you worked with her, convinced her to testify in front of the wizengamot, we could finally—”</p><p>“That witness is seeking asylum in <em> Japan </em>, Harry! You’re sending me away—”</p><p>“Damn it, Hermione, this isn’t a punishment. Nor is it up for discussion. It’s an <em> order— </em>”</p><p>Despite her skill and years of perfecting the control of her magic, Hermione was still susceptible to raw emotion. Not only did her blood simmer just beneath her skin, but the wild particles of her magic that refused to be tamed hummed out, their sound growing louder, louder, louder until it vibrated out of her for others to hear.</p><p>Fury fed these fragments, causing the glass walls to rattle.</p><p>“<em> Where is Draco Malfoy? </em>” The words cut the roof of her mouth as she let them out. </p><p>Harry didn’t even look past her shoulder or to his sides. The walls of his office could disintegrate, Hermione knew, and he would still continue to look her in the eye like he was building monuments of truth. </p><p>“In Azkaban,” he said, unwavering. “Serving a life sentence for war crimes and murder.”</p><p>The other empty chair slid to the left, crashing into a bookcase Hermione kept filled. The third shelf broke, historical texts tumbling to the floor. Her magic whispered in her ear, telling her it wanted to hurl the chair right at Harry next, anything to get him to close his eyes. Rationality was rising like a wave, trying to overpower her fury, but Ron interfered quicker.</p><p>He had barged in, wand in hand; a Protego shot up between herself and Harry, forcing her back a step just as a silencing charm encircled the room.</p><p>“What the bloody hell’s going on in here?” demanded Ron. “The walls are transparent, you know? Fuck sakes.”</p><p>She ignored him, her eyes still glued on Harry’s face. “I saw him,” Hermione breathed. “He was sitting in Herrera’s Cafe.”</p><p>Harry didn’t blink, didn’t move. For a moment she thought he might give up, that he would realize that she knew him too well to continue lying, but then an exhausted noise spilled from between his clenched teeth. “Dark Magic has side-effects,” he stated. “The Healer did say you might experience confusion or—”</p><p>“I <em> saw </em>him!” </p><p>“I don’t know who you saw, Hermione, but it wasn’t him. I told you, he’s in Azkaban. And he’s going to die there.”</p><p>The scream that tore past her throat sounded foreign to her own ears. If she hadn’t felt it form, travel, and burn from deep within her abdomen, Hermione wouldn’t have known it belonged to her. She wouldn’t have known it was what propelled her forward, ready to slice through the shield charm with her bare hands. Her best friends knew she was capable of it, too; because they did, Harry flinched and Ron managed to block her. Unlike their early sparring session, Ron caged her by wrapping his arms around her waist, yanking her back before she hurled a fist or wandless curse forward.</p><p>Remorse on Harry Potter looked a lot like pity. </p><p>And that’s when he finally closed his eyes: when he couldn’t stand recalling how she sounded, wounded and unfamiliar, when Draco Malfoy broke free from where she kept him hidden.  </p><p>“What do you want me to say, Hermione?”</p><p>“The truth, you complete arsehole!”</p><p>His emerald eyes came back to life. The pity was gone; he looked fifteen again, vowing to kill Bellatrix Lestrange after she’d taken Sirius from him. “Then <em> you </em> should’ve given me the truth first. You should’ve told me why you gave what was left of yourself to a Death Eater.”</p><p>Hermione stilled in Ron’s arms. </p><p>After the war, she had to gather what was left of herself, fragments missing, scattered by the cold, unforgiving wind, or turned into irreversible, iridescent dust at the cruel hands of her enemies, and put it all back together. Except she did not fit inside herself the way she had before; her soul lived in a body it did not recognize, a mangled, disfigured heart pumping blood through astringent veins that no longer belonged to the intelligent, kind, warm little girl she had once been. </p><p>Maybe that was why she had thrust what remained into Draco Malfoy’s hands; because what had made Hermione Granger up had been stolen, murdered, or sacrificed for a world he had foolishly believed he would reign over. So when she slid her aching, bruised fingers into his matted, bloodied hair, she did so thinking there was hardly anything left of him, either. </p><p>How was she supposed to know that, like Frankenstein, he had the ability to create something out of their mismatched, damaged pieces? </p><p>“The wizengamot wanted his soul,” continued Harry. “There was nothing I could’ve said that would’ve pardoned him. He still followed Voldemort. He still let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. And he still murdered a man.”</p><p>“And if Malfoy was capable of all that, Hermione, what guaranteed us he hadn’t forced himself on you?”</p><p>The air in her lungs began to coagulate at the sound of Ron’s voice, each word digging into her back like corroded knives. </p><p>It hurt more than the rebounding curse he had not protected her from. </p><p>“Exile,” Harry said. “For twenty years, the Malfoys were forbidden from stepping back onto British soil. Unable to make contact with anyone here, let alone make their banishment known.”</p><p>“They’ve only been gone for five,” Ron grunted, his arms still wrapped tightly around Hermione. “What’s Kingsley playing at here, mate? He negotiated those terms. Why bring them back now?”</p><p>“This isn’t him,” Harry huffed, his hands coming back under his glasses to rub at his eyelids. “This is—”</p><p>“Both of you lied to me,” Hermione said slowly, like she had never known the feeling before and was trying not to choke on the aftertaste. Her fingers coiled around Ron’s wrists, nails sinking into his flesh until he let out a hiss and pulled away from her. “You told me he’d never see the light of day again.”</p><p>Harry pushed his palms deeper, fingertips now forming circles against his temples. When he peeled them away, the green in his eyes was the same shade as the Forbidden Forest at night. “We did what we had to do to protect you.”</p><p>“You had no right—”</p><p>“<em>Didn’t we? </em>” He stood now, the same hands that often squeezed her own in comfort, that playfully tugged at her curls when sharing a laugh, slammed against his desk. “Because you were coherent enough to testify in his defense? Because you hadn’t just lost your parents to a memory charm? Because you weren’t still recovering from the damage his aunt inflicted? You’ve never been a damsel in fucking distress, Hermione, we know that, but you weren’t yourself then!”</p><p>Ron braved a hand on her shoulder. His jaw was rigid, but his gaze was soft, glimmering loyally, affectionately under the white lights of the Head Auror Office. “It was the right choice, ‘Mione.”</p><p>“It was the easy choice,” she snarled, shoving his hand away. “For both of you. It was easier to send him away, to run a false conviction, to imprison a ghost in Azkaban, and hope that twenty years was enough time to stop him from haunting me. Well, how’d that work out for you?”</p><p>Ron kept his eyes on her, his remorse looking a lot like righteousness, before glancing over at Harry. While the latter had been on an individual track to becoming Head Auror when they joined the department, the three of them had a partnership that defied careers and coworkers. Everything they had acquired to succeed in this job they had learned from each other, fighting, surviving, and building together since they were children. That same indestructible bond Hermione had with Harry connected her to Ron, too. She knew how they communicated their silence and how to decipher every one of their shades, flickers, and lines. </p><p>“If Azkaban didn’t claim his life, you hoped twenty years in exile might,” Hermione murmured what they were not saying out loud. Tears distorted them and the hum of her magic silenced itself at once. “Did you truly think that’s what I needed? Even now?”</p><p>Harry dropped back down to his seat. “No,” he returned just as quietly, but he continued to look at her like he had after they escaped Malfoy Manor, terrified and guilty at what Bellatrix Lestrange had whittled away. “But it isn’t about you anymore, Hermione.”</p><p>She slid a trembling hand up to her heart, searching for its steady bray. </p><p>“We might’ve run a false conviction,” said Ron, “but you made sure he became a ghost.”</p><p>“It’s why you won’t say his name,” Harry reminded her. “He could haunt you for the rest of <em>your</em> life, but you don’t want the reputation of a war criminal tormenting your son.”</p><p>Hermione sunk fingernails into her chest just as a knock echoed around the office. They turned to the noise; there, flanking Robards and Head Auror Jasper, was Draco Malfoy. </p><p>All silver eyes and white-blonde hair. </p><p>How could she ever be free of him when his colors were what her nightmares built themselves around? How could she ever be free of him when his colors were the same shades as her most cherished possession, too?</p><p><em> Scorpius</em>—a life they created out of the mismatched, damaged pieces of their youth. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ooohhh, a little plot twist and cliffhanger! lol.</p><p>Also, I'm leaving in some lyrics (at the beginning) to a specific song that might've influenced the chapter in some way. This one belonged to Taylor Swift's "My Tears Ricochet" from her Folklore album (as did the title of this story, but from her song 'Cardigan'). </p><p>Thanks for reading! x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. off the deep end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>i miss you in the same ways i hated you</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was forcing the air out of her lungs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione wasn’t quite sure how Draco Malfoy was doing it, but he definitely had been making it difficult for her to breathe. It was his thing, after all; he had done it before, twelve years old and taunting her with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ll be next, mudbloods</span>
  </em>
  <span>, seventeen years old with a split lip and loathing in his silver eyes when he whispered a command against her ear, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>take your knickers off, Granger </span>
  </em>
  <span>that still plagued her half a decade later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the scorching words echoed inside her head, shattering any illusions of sleep the moon and midnight sky promised, she had often (reluctantly) wondered if it still plagued him, too. In his cold, dark cell, she wondered if he remembered saying it at all—or how easily (quickly) she had obeyed, slipping her underwear off, her gasp resounding across what was left of their old Potions classroom when he pushed his way in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wondered, too, if he despised her even more for having been the last person to touch him before being imprisoned (alone) for the rest of his life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know there are a lot of questions,” Robards commenced after Kingsley’s timid assistant secured the privacy wards in their conference room, his tone gruff and impatient as ever. “And the Minister and myself will answer what we deem necessary, but, as always, you’d do well to remember the confidentiality clauses you were bound to when you took on the title of Auror.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry slid his right hand off the large, sleek, white-oak table; his fingers gently circled Hermione’s wrist, squeezing three times like they were still trainees in need of silent encouragement to keep going. To keep surviving.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew she had to find her breath again, but the relentless, grey storms in Draco’s narrowed eyes made it difficult to force her lungs to function again. Especially when his gaze had flickered to where Harry’s hand had disappeared, like he could see through the wood and he was still not above ridiculing and judging them for how openly they displayed their weaknesses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The situation was much worse by Lucius Malfoy finding her brown eyes almost as frequently as his son.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They know their positions, Gawain,” Kingsley said to his Head of the DMLE as he leaned against his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest. To the other occupants in the room, he looked every bit a Minister for Magic that was not afraid to roll up the sleeves of his expensive robes and put in the work where it was needed. To Hermione, he looked just as he did in the ancient, dusty rooms of Grimmauld Place—like a soldier, a strategist, a survivor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But now a liar, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Five years ago,” he continued, “the wizengamot held a private sentencing for the Malfoy family. A selected few were allowed in aside from the council, those being two members of the</span>
  <em>
    <span> Daily Prophet</span>
  </em>
  <span>, myself, and Harry Potter. The world demanded Death Eaters to pay their reparations with blood, but we needed the Malfoys elsewhere. The wizengamot proceeded with their original verdict: life in Azkaban for Draco and Lucius Malfoy and three years of house arrest for Narcissa Malfoy. It was the sentence we gave to those two reporters. And it was the sentence they passed on to you, the public.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione tugged her hand free from beneath Harry’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the hollow center of their conference table, a projection appeared. It was the front page of an old </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daily Prophet </span>
  </em>
  <span>she knew every word of: </span>
  <b>DRACO AND LUCIUS MALFOY, SENTENCED TO LIFE IN AZKABAN FOR WAR CRIMES.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Once the reporters were escorted out of the hearing, we gave the Malfoys a choice: a life of limited freedom and magic in France, forbidden from ever returning to England, or twenty years of exile, guaranteed a sentence reduction if they aided our undercover Aurors and the </span>
  <span>Ministère des Affaires in tracking down fugitive Death Eaters in that region.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sat at Hermione’s right, Ron’s palms turned into white fists when Harry cleared his throat as he waved a wrist at the static photograph of Draco Malfoy strapped and chained to a chair, his real conviction darkening the purple underneath his eyes like it weighed the same as the false sentencing the newspapers printed. In its place emerged another old Prophet article Hermione was familiar with: </span>
  <b>ESCAPED DEATH EATER RABASTAN LESTRANGE CAUGHT AT LAST.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As you know,” said Harry, the corner of his jaw ticking when his Aurors looked past the projection, shadows of the same betrayal Hermione felt flashing in their eyes, too, “retired Auror Bernard Williamson was awarded an Order of Merlin: First Class after Rabastan Lestrange’s capture. While Williamson did effectively lead a small team of our Aurors across allied countries, Lestrange’s apprehension was aided by Draco and Lucius Malfoy. If it hadn't been for their contribution, Rabastan would still be on the run alongside his brother Rodolphus, whom he later gave up to the Ministry in exchange for a shorter sentence."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ron scoffed, something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>cowardly dickhead </span>
  </em>
  <span>leaving his mouth. Hermione doubted it was directed at either Lestrange brother, even if his blue eyes were zeroed in on the changing Wanted posters in the projection. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “If Williamson received an Order of Merlin—” Although Hermione had struggled with noticing anything else other than Draco Malfoy materialized after five years of forcing him behind an occluded space, she had not missed the expression on Blaise’s face when he had seen the ghost, too. Like a shield charm made of flesh and bone, Blaise knew how to conceal his emotions behind a flawless mask; to see the shock, the anger, the deception fray the edges of it now fueled Hermione’s, too. “What did the Malfoys get for catching the Lestranges?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robards aimed a glare at Harry first but the latter was glued to the Wanted posters. Hermione knew he was thinking of Sirius; it was an instinctive reflex to want to reach out to him, dip her fingers into his fisted palm until his fingers relaxed, rest her chin against his shoulder, or clutch on to his elbow as he reeled himself back in from the nightmares that plague him even when he was awake.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Before she reacted, however, Robards grit out, “Rabastan Lestrange did indeed help us apprehend his brother, but do you think we completely acquitted his transgressions because he pointed a finger at another Death Eater and murderer, Auror Zabini? The best he got was an hour a day without chains, but subdued by a potion in case he tried to kill </span><em><span>yet</span></em> <em><span>another</span></em><span> guard.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Translation: a monster doesn’t stop being a monster because he catches one, too. The Lestrange brothers had more blood on their hands than Draco and Lucius Malfoy, that was true, but they were still marked by the same master.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They would always be guilty of the same crimes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione shifted in her seat when the silver in Draco’s eyes grew colder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Malfoys have proven themselves useful to whomever they are lent to,” spoke Head Auror Luke Jasper, hazel eyes glittering as he grinned at the foreign colleagues now turning their attention to him. When he caught Hermione’s eye, his mirth turned sharp. “That’s why the French sent them over to MACUSA. They were the ones to find Travers, tracing him back to that Te-Moak reservation. And that’s why I have brought them here alongside my team, to continue putting their expertise to good use.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was that before or after our Ministry warned you about Atlas Greyback and the pack he was putting together?” Hermione grimaced when she heard Ron. She should’ve known it was too much to expect him to have control over his frustration, especially when faced with arrogant American Aurors and his childhood nemesis. “Last year we told MACUSA Greyback was recruiting, searching for fugitive scum that had spread to your country, but your lot refused to listen. You refused to work with us because—oi, what was the reason again, Harry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“MACUSA wasn’t afraid of werewolves,” supplied Miles Bulstrode, crossing his muscular arms over his chest as he glared at Jasper. “Not when you’ve tamed deadlier beasts than that. I mean, those were your words, weren’t they, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now you have three dead Aurors,” Ron did not hesitate, ignoring the threatening glint in Harry’s green eyes that told him to back off. “Now you turned our issue into an International Confederation one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Having been set on never saving Ron and Harry from anything ever again, Hermione was once again victim to her instincts. This impulse had been formed in childhood, too; the one where she would always pull those two out of the deep end, even if it meant diving in after them. As such, she found herself focusing on the projection at the center of the conference table. In a second, the Wanted posters became a livestream of Fenrir Greyback’s cell (a charm she helped George and Lee Jordan perfect after having introduced them to trashy reality telly). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just like Robards turned away from Harry, Head Auror Jasper and his team redirected their scowls to the video. In tensed silence they watched Greyback stop from scratching names into the stone with his fingernails; in the next moment, he exposed long, sharp canines when a team of guards entered his cell, his howl inaudible from the livestream, but Hermione picked up on how the guards recoiled at the noise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Greyback has been carving the names of his children into that wall since Atlas tried to break him out last year,” Hermione found her voice, the sound strained like she had not used it for ages rather than in an hour. Draco’s attention had deviated for a moment, but it was back on her. She zeroed in on Head Auror Jasper, who sat on the former’s left. “It isn’t for sentimental reasons, of course. They’re reminders of what is owed to him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A life for a life,” said Jasper, his previous mirth dissolving the distaste he felt for her fellow Aurors. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded. “We tracked those names and the only surviving offspring is Atlas. It not only makes him the alpha of the Greyback pack, but the one bound to collect from those who owe his father a debt. And that is the major question: who owes Fenrir Greyback a life? If we answer that, we can stop Atlas and his pack from killing any more innocent people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Dark Lord owes Greyback a debt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Take your knickers off, Granger.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Come for me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I never wanted you to die. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those were among the last words Hermione heard fall from Draco Malfoy’s lips. After five years of trying to forget how he sounded, looked, and tasted when he said them, she was not expecting to hear him say something new. Nor was she expecting to feel the same thrill shooting up her spine upon hearing his voice again, like he was wrapping a gentle hand around her throat once more, sliding back into her after pulling out just to have her beg for everything he had left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wanted Hermione to look at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That much she guessed when the unforgiving storms in his eyes turned into calm winter rains. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He demanded servants,” said Draco, “and that included the heirs of his original followers. Greyback was nothing more than a halfbreed to the Dark Lord, but he still produced monsters for the cause. He took Greyback’s children, sent them to war, and they were the first to die in the frontlines.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Voldemort is dead,” Ron reminded with a snarl, his hand coming down on Hermione’s shoulder like he was holding her in place. As if he knew—as if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>feared</span>
  </em>
  <span>—she would follow the sound of Draco’s voice like a siren call.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right into the deep end. Again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Smart as ever, Weasley,” Draco sneered, glancing back at where his fingers touched Hermione. Then, as Lucius Malfoy shifted in his seat, bringing his pale hands to rest over the table, she watched Draco revert to a ghost. “Death Eaters,” he added, devoid of the intensity that sparked memories in Hermione’s mind. “They owe Greyback the debt now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With their master dead, these remaining fugitive Death Eaters will follow any monster that promises freedom,” Harry sighed as he cast the empty livestream away. He then turned exhausted eyes at his Aurors. “We need to go back to our files and trace links between both Greybacks and other registered packs. From there, we will cross-reference for connections to known Death Eaters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miles and the other Aurors stood, nodding firmly at Harry’s command. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll have to go through the Head of the DRCMC to get those files,” said Blaise, his gaze briefly directed at Draco before turning back to his Head Auror. Hermione noticed he had managed to smooth out any signs of his displeasure aimed at Harry as he spoke to him now. “And she will be a nightmare to convince seeing as a prominent figure petitioned for werewolf registrations to stop being used for DMLE matters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When used in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>discriminatory</span>
  </em>
  <span> context—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Auror Granger will speak to the DRCMC,” Harry interrupted Hermione, earning him a glare when he then told Blaise, “You can go to Azkaban. Speak to Crabbe Sr. See what information he can give us on Fenrir Greyback.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She yanked the paperwork off the surface of the table. When she scooted her chair back and stood, letting out a murmured curse, Hermione didn’t fail to notice Head Auror Jasper grin wickedly at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“While your partner thinks MACUSA egotistic enough to belittle a werewolf attack,” he said, “we in New York were perhaps too trusting in your abilities as a peacemaker, Auror Granger. After all, your reputation proceeds you. Hermione Granger: war hero, brightest witch of her age, revered Auror, and an advocate for all wizard and creature-kind. If anyone could do the impossible, it surely would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you taking the piss?” demanded Ron, his freckled face a bright, furious red. He pushed his chair back,  an accusatory finger pointed at Jasper and his team. “MACUSA knew Hermione had been attacked by Atlas Greyback.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jasper didn’t lose his grin. “We read the report, Auror Weasley. And it seemed to us like you have a habit of leaving Hermione behind. I mean, you do come back—</span>
  <em>
    <span>eventually.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Still, usually, something has happened since then, whether that be Atlas Greyback, a snake posing as a celebrated historian, or a burst of dark magic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Potter!” growled Robards as Ron lunged for Jasper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry gripped the back of Ron’s robes and Hermione brought a palm to the aching, bruised side of her face. She had not reinforced the glamour charm since the morning. As she traced a careful fingertip across her skin, she watched Draco follow the path with his eyes, the violet shades disappearing with a bit of wandless magic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I never wanted you to die.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The strange, soft glimmer in Draco’s gaze reminded Hermione of the way he had said those last six words. Like he meant them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like it mattered that she stayed whole.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione turned on her heels as she had done back in Señora Herrera’s cafe, walking away from Draco and the expression on his handsome, pale features that made her believe he had been waiting all this time for her to find him again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>______</b>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe she was a coward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was well aware of all of her faults, of course, but Hermione felt the sting of the word more sharply as it carved itself down her spine. Plenty of times she took a deep breath, raised her chin, and did the thing that terrified her, but this was different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was Draco Malfoy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a time—back before she knew his tongue tasted tangy and sweet like crisp, green apples and the crook of his neck tasted like their own brand of regret—she would have faced him head-on, staring right into those treacherous, storming eyes and cursed him until he forfeited to her courage and magic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now Hermione was the one running.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Borrowing the files from the DRCMC had not been difficult or time-consuming for her; while her coworkers loved to tease her about riling up the Heads of other departments by constantly surveying their work and propositioning new, effective, and orderly manners to execute aforementioned work, there was always a grateful, overworked secretary or assistant that owed her favors. She knew the right thing to have done was head back to the bullpen, congregate with those on the Greyback case, and stay until Harry called it a night. But that meant having to look at him, too—at her lying best friend and his self-proclaimed good intentions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she got into the lift and found herself at the Atrium, Hermione shrunk the files and tucked them into the pocket of her robes. Every step into the Floo had weighed, like she was leaving fossilized footprints on the sleek, marble floor, but her heart screamed out for her safe haven.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For Scorpius.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew he would not be expecting her so early in the evening; during the weekdays, he was accustomed to a glimpse of her through sleepy eyes and the feel of her kiss on both his cheeks before his dreams called for him. So when the Floo burned with emerald flames, signaling an arrival, Hermione almost laughed at the confusion tugging his blonde brows together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Scorpius registered that he was indeed seeing her, all curly hair slipping out of a once-pristine bun and gentle, warm, loving eyes, he tossed his crayons, jumped to his little feet, and bellowed as he ran to her, “Mummy!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello, darling,” Hermione breathed, her left hand moving to cup the back of Scorpius’ neck as the right pressed him further against herself. When the nightmares of war left her trembling, she often embraced her son like this, like she could burrow him inside her chest to keep him safe from the dark clouds that shadowed her past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The echo of heels against the tiled floor made Hermione look up from Scorpius’ soft, white-blonde hair. Pansy Parkinson was standing at the end of the hall, her eyes sharp like ragged sapphires and her ruby-red lips threatening a snarl Hermione had not seen since their school days.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She knew.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking in another quiet breath, Hermione willed herself to take a step back from her child. This newfound space let Scorpius tilt his chin up, big, bright silver eyes glittering as he smiled. If there was anything that could cure the parts of herself that still bled, screamed, and raged, it was that sight—her son happy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been good for your Aunt Pansy, right?” asked Hermione with a smile of her own, her hands now moving up to rest against his round cheeks. “You know she threatened to stop minding you after your rucksack of contraband put a hole in our roof last week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s a right little heathen,” huffed Pansy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scorpius turned to her with a pouted bottom lip. “Sorry, Auntie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>George</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Pansy clarified with a scoff, rolling her eyes as she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her gorgeous and expensive pantsuit. “I swear to you, Granger, that I turned away for one second. I still haven’t cracked how George managed to sneak all those products to the kid, but when I do—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scorpius let out a loud laugh at the violent, crude gesture Pansy made. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Usually, Hermione would have frowned and reprimanded both for their lack of tact, but instead she let herself smile at the sound, running her thumbs over his cheeks in gentle circles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You missed me today, Mummy?” he asked when he turned back to her, his head tilting to the side. “Is that why you’re home early?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I miss you every second, sweetheart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pansy made a gagging noise just as Scorpius scrunched up his nose at the giant kiss Hermione pressed to his forehead. “Kid,” she called, “why don’t you finish up your homework in your room while your mum gets started on dinner?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you were making pasta today, Auntie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Making?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Buying, </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” huffed Pansy at Hermione’s disbelieving snort. “And while Zabini’s restaurant sells excellent bolognese, growing little dragons need hearty, homemade meals. At least that’s what Mrs. Weasley keeps telling me since the kid tattled on me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione toed off her boots as Scorpius skipped back to the coffee table, retrieving his belongings. “Scorp didn’t tattle,” she clarified defensively, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ronald</span>
  </em>
  <span> did. Seeing as he was under the ridiculous impression that his fiancee cooked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, now he deserved that lie, didn’t he?” Pansy said, following Hermione into the kitchen once Scorpius walked down the hall that led to his bedroom. “And while I do quite fancy his face, Granger, if you told me you rearranged his nose I wouldn’t hold it against you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blowing out a frustrated breath as she slipped off her robes and draped it over a chair, Hermione said, “I wanted to. Believe me. I should’ve hit harder during training, but I felt bad for the idiot. Joke’s on me now, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pansy Accoied a bottle of wine from the fridge. Hermione knew she normally turned up her refined nose at the generic stuff she picked up from Tesco, but Pansy was trying to show her solidarity by ingesting the stuff. Oddly enough, Hermione appreciated the effort. It was, after all, how Pansy had slithered her way into their circle, by shattering preconceived notions and old grudges with her specific brand of loyalty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was Zabini, wasn’t it?” Hermione took the filled glass from Pansy’s outstretched hand. “He told you about Mal—about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His owl came in after Ron’s frantic Floo Call, actually,” she said after taking a sip of the red, her nose wrinkling just as Scorpius’ had done when Hermione smothered him. She tried for another drink before setting the glass on the wooden table. “I’ll tell you this, Granger, he wasn’t the least bit terrified of my reaction, but of </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He seemed to think you’d be lost to him and Potter now that the truth is out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione slid into a chair, her eyes welling with tears. Anger and agony felt too much alike to deduce which preceded over the other, both wrapping fingers around her heart, sinking claws into the fragile tissue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harry said he kept the secret for Scorpius’ sake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t think that’s true?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t his choice,” she hissed, but a sob escaped her restraint. She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, forcing the rest to stay in line, to keep quiet so her little boy wouldn’t come racing out of his room trying to defeat any hurricane that threatened to uproot her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pansy twisted the glass between manicured fingers for a moment, her sharp blue eyes observing, trying to find more than what Hermione already openly wore. Before, when they were young girls, adversaries and opposites of each other, she attempted to discover and create weaknesses to exploit or hurt Hermione with, but now, after three years of friendship, she pulled out what was not being said to </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re right, Granger. It wasn’t his choice. Nor was it Ron’s,” she said, bringing the glass to her ruby-painted lips. When she took a tentative sip of the cheap wine, she then laid out what Hermione did not want to hear: “But you’re not really mad at the lie, are you? You’re mad you believed it. It was easier that way. To keep your past locked in a cell in Azkaban where no one could get to it. Not even you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Take your knickers off, Granger.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Come for me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I never wanted you to die.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You never asked to see him—” Pansy reached for Hermione’s hand, breaking her free from the memory of Draco’s lips against her ear, demanding in whispers for her to offer up everything she had left. “If you had, you would’ve been compelled to tell him he left you with more than just ghosts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione pressed her free hand against her chest. Beneath the skin and bone, she could feel her twisted, damaged heart calling out for her most cherished possession. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A little boy that was half Malfoy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t owe him the truth, Granger,” continued Pansy, squeezing her fingers once before bringing her hand back to the wine glass. “Salazar knows I wouldn’t give it to him, but it’s not a secret you can keep forever. You gave the kid your name, but you raised him among lions and snakes. You made us all promise never to reveal his parentage, but even someone blind can see he’s a copy of Draco.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scorpius was all silver eyes and platinum-white hair. But sharp, pale angles and a love for flying, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what are you really afraid of?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A wave of new tears spilled down Hermione’s cheeks when she looked at Pansy. She didn’t have to say it; she knew Pansy had already found the truth hidden behind the anger and the agony stretched out across her expression.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione was terrified of diving off the deep end again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right into Draco’s arms. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey, guys! Sorry for the late update. I promise I AM trying for once a week, but I'm trying to adjust to my new work schedule and it's not going as planned lol. Nonetheless, thank you for reading and the lovely comments! They mean so much to me!</p>
<p>Song: "Playing with Fire (Loving You)" by The Careful Ones</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. old scars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> you were written in the stars that we are swimming in </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Another foul word was scarring her skin.</p><p>Hermione couldn’t see <em> coward </em> the same way she saw the <em> mudblood </em> on her forearm, but it still felt like it had been carved in with slanted letters. Each one burning and drawing out blood like Bellatrix Lestrange’s blade had done. Still, after tossing and turning for hours, whispering a bitter farewell to the moon as the sun erupted orange and pink across the sky, she felt the word embedded down her spine. She kicked off the tangle of cold bedsheets and shuffled to her vanity, tugging Ron’s old Chudley Cannons hoodie off to examine her back. Of course, there had not been a new, bleeding wound there, only old scars collected from old battles and old freckles collected from old summer days scattered across tawny skin. </p><p>
  <em> What are you really afraid of? </em>
</p><p>Pansy’s question kept echoing inside her skull, rattling perfectly placed barriers that had long kept the truth contained. She had known the answer, of course; not a lot escaped Pansy Parkinson, not when she had been bred to find and exploit faults, strengths, and sins. However, while Pansy had always been compelled to use such discoveries for her own personal gain, Hermione happened to be her friend. So she left Hermione alone with the ghost she had created for herself. </p><p>She had always been haunted by it—how could she not be when she had to look into Scorpius’ eyes every day? But Hermione had learned to build walls. Brick by brick, she stacked each and then cemented those barriers in her mind, blocking out the taste, the sight, and the smell of Draco Malfoy. </p><p>
  <em> Take your knickers off, Granger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Come for me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I never wanted you to die. </em>
</p><p>A child and a demanding job had taken precedence over the past. These had also forced her to heal, too; pushing her forward, even if she had to crawl on her hands and knees to overcome the war and the Death Eater serving a life sentence in Azkaban. And yet, despite excelling at everything, Hermione had not completely succeeded in taming the memory hidden behind those walls. She could occlude into her dying day, but she knew she would never truly forget—not the taste of Draco’s tongue, tangy and sweet, even as he whispered filthy things against her throat, or the view from beneath him, all glowing grey eyes and flushed, bruised skin, or the metallic stench of blood and ash wrapping around them, let alone the faint traces of bergamot lingering in the crook of his neck. </p><p>Building him that cell inside her head had only made Hermione want to break him out. On occasion, she had stood before it with the key in her hand, but she knew there would be consequences if she set him free. So she forced herself to take a step back and leave him there, serving a life sentence in the darkest corners of her mind just like the one he had been serving in Azkaban.</p><p>But Draco had never been there. </p><p>“Oh, come look, Wendell!”</p><p>Looking up from the page she had been stuck on for the past hour, Hermione had to shield her eyes from the warm sunshine as a woman with an even warmer gaze marveled at the sandcastle Scorpius was putting together. </p><p>It was her mother. </p><p>“Well, that’s Buckingham Palace,” said Wendell Wilkins with a critical eye that never proved to be harsh, not when there was always an impressed tone weaved into every word. He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, both of them leaning in for further inspection. “Great architectural choice, lad.”</p><p>Scorpius opened his mouth, a grin already pulling at the corners, but he turned to Hermione first. His amusement was quickly fading, like the waves of the ocean behind them had reached out and claimed it, ready to take back his happiness to unchartered depths. </p><p>Hermione would tie mountains around her ankles and drown to get it back, to assure herself that her child would always keep his smile, but all she had to do now was give him an encouraging nod.</p><p>“Mummy’s teaching me about Queen Elizabeth,” he told Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins. “But the queen doesn’t always live in Buckingham Palace since she has so many castles!”</p><p>It still hurt. </p><p>No matter how many times Wendell and Monica Wilkins turned to face Hermione, it still hurt. It ached and destroyed what was left of her heart to see herself in their eyes—to only be a young stranger sitting on a beach towel, a discarded book on her lap, and a flowy, pale lavender sundress on. Because when she looked at them, all eternal sunshine wrapped up in thin colorful linen, she saw her parents.</p><p>She saw <em> home </em>.</p><p>“Another Brit in Australia,” Monica said with a laugh. “Do you live here or are you on holiday, darling?”</p><p>“On holiday,” Hermione offered, her voice thick with emotion she usually was quick to swallow down. She cleared her throat next, attempting a smile that could match the genuine excitement on her son’s face. “The little one loves the beach. Wouldn’t even entertain the idea of Paris in autumn.”</p><p>Wendell let out a loud laugh as Monica scoffed. </p><p>“Women,” he told Scorpius as he plopped down beside him, his wrinkled hands already scooping up mushy sand to help fortify the walls of Buckingham Palace. “There’s something about Paris that they can’t get enough of.”</p><p>“You’re stereotyping, sweetheart,” Monica chastised with a pointed look that Hermione could recognize in her own reflection. “You just don’t like cities.”</p><p>Wendell waved her off before gathering more sand and inquiring after Scorpius’ building method. Hermione could have spent the rest of her life watching her father and her child interacting, coming up with different lives where Mr. Wilkins was still Mr. Granger, equipped with all of his memories and a love so profound for a grandchild Hermione wouldn’t have had to raise on her own.</p><p><em> No, </em> Hermione held her breath, <em> there was Harry. </em></p><p>There was always Harry.</p><p>They had been orphans together, watching from the sidelines as the Weasleys had attempted to sow themselves back together, missing pieces leaving them jagged and less vibrant. Of course, they pierced Harry and Hermione’s sides with their needle, yanking gold thread through their skin to tie the two to them, reminding them they belonged—reminding Harry and Hermione that they were Weasleys, too. </p><p>While they adored the Weasleys with everything they had, Hermione would only have to look at Harry to find him already watching her, the bitter concoction of longing, grief, and anger simmering just beneath forced smiles. They had always been grateful for having something tangible, but they had wanted something of their own. </p><p>Hermione would have happily carved her beating heart out of her chest to have her mother smiling down beside her hospital bed, smoothing a cool, comforting hand across her drenched forehead, telling her to <em> push, darling, push. Baby’s almost here.  </em></p><p>“Are you all right, darling?”</p><p>Feeding her lungs sea salt air, Hermione managed to find her voice as Monica Wilkins studied her, gently taking a seat beside her. Even after five cruel years of not being her mother’s daughter, Hermione could still decipher every quirk of Monica’s face. There was always genuine curiosity, tangible concern, and glimmers of respect in the woman’s rich brown gaze. Like a child clinging on to fairytales where magic and love could solve it all, Hermione wanted to believe what she saw in Monica’s eyes was the soul of a mother recognizing her daughter. </p><p>Outside of fairytales spun to enchant the naive, magic and love only cured certain things. Hermione was reminded of that every time the Wilkins’ decided to go, their interest and adoration fading into the void where their real lives resided. </p><p>Every single time.</p><p>“I don’t think I am,” Hermione confessed, her bones aching desperately for her mother’s comfort. “But my son needs me to be.”</p><p>Monica made a noise of understanding, her hand coming to pat Hermione’s knee softly. “I cannot say I’m familiar with motherhood, but I fully comprehend the concept of true love. It comes in different forms, of course, but its basis is the same. You want to be the best version of yourself to ensure your love’s safety and happiness.”</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>“It’s a beautiful notion,” said Monica, “but impossible.”</p><p>She could have cried at the echo of her mother’s words being carried away by the crashing waves. Hermione recalled herself in her early teenage years, sitting at their kitchen table, her heart bruised because Ronald Weasley decided he fancied Lavender Brown. Her mother had said a variation of the same words then, her hand gently patting Hermione’s cheek as the other wiped tears away. </p><p>“You’re under a soul contract to protect that little boy with everything you have, darling, but you’re only human,” Monica continued. “You’re allowed to hurt. In doing so, you become the <em> truer </em> version of yourself. That’s who you want your son to know. Because one day, quicker than you might think, he will grow and he won’t be perfect, but you would’ve shown him it’s okay to be a little rough around the edges.”</p><p>Hermione shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I almost lost myself once when he was born,” she murmured, shame overpowering the taste of regret she had been savoring since Draco Malfoy came back from the shadows. “I put myself back as quickly as I could, needing to save him, needing to make sure he always felt loved, but in doing so—”</p><p>“Mummy, look! Grand—Mr. Wendell made an angel!”</p><p>“It’s the monument made as a tribute to the late Queen Victoria,” said Wendell as he molded sand together, encouraging Scorpius to come closer. “It was designed in 1901, but was actually finished in 1911—”</p><p>“I took pieces from him,” Hermione finished, her fingernails sinking into the delicate binding of her book. “I hid parts of my child that I was too terrified to keep. Now it’s all come back.”</p><p>Monica moved her hand to Hermione’s left, carefully dipping her fingers into the latter’s grip, nudging it loose. “His father?”</p><p>Even as a stranger, Hermione was easily read by her mother. All she had to do was tilt her head to the side, narrow brown eyes slightly, and hear all the things Hermione had left unsaid.</p><p>“His father has a habit of breaking things.”</p><p>“When you said you had to put yourself back together—”</p><p>“Oh. No,” Hermione clarified with a quiet laugh. “I wasn’t whole when our paths truly crossed. Neither was he, actually.”</p><p>The comforting hand on Hermione’s knee squeezed once before Monica settled her palms over her lap. “What’s your head telling you, darling?”</p><p>Hermione laughed a little louder. Her mother had always been the heart. Her father the head. Even from a young age, she had known which parent she had inherited all logical reflexes from. Sure, her mother’s heart beat inside Hermione’s chest, too, reminding her to care, to love, to forgive, but it was her father’s wisdom that paved a straight path to the library. </p><p><em> Anticipate the next move, dear, </em> her father had said once, <em> then you’ll always keep your head. </em></p><p>The times she had ignored reason in favor of emotion, Hermione had lost more than she had gained. </p><p>Until Scorpius.</p><p>“My head’s telling me to run.”</p><p>“And your heart?” asked Monica as she looked up from her husband and Scorpius, meeting Hermione’s tear-filled gaze. Every time she did, Hermione wished upon the giant, burning star in the sky that her mother would remember, that she would recall the same deep color of Hermione’s eyes and the stray freckles across the bridge of her nose and recognize them as her own, but memory charms with irreversible damage did not adhere to silly dreams. </p><p>“To run faster,” Hermione murmured, “but I know I shouldn’t. I know what it’s like to lose my family, I can’t let my son lose his, too.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>_______</strong>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it had been cruel to tell Scorpius who Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were. </p><p>She had planned to explain why they often took so many day trips to that Australian beach when he was older, when he was capable of understanding the war Hermione had fought in and the consequences their magic could have. But in between bedtime stories involving her own youth, Hermione knew it was crueler to have Scorpius grieve two people who were not actually dead. Not when she would never stop sitting on that beach towel, a discarded book on her lap, and wearing a flowy sundress the same shade as her Yule Ball gown. </p><p>At first, Scorpius had been confused and frequently had to hear the rules of never revealing who they were to his grandparents, but Hermione’s little boy was sharp. He understood quickly what it meant to her to watch him with the Wilkins’—he understood quickly what it meant to Hermione to know there was someone who loved her parents just as much as she did. </p><p>“What other buildings does Granddad like, Mummy?” Scorpius asked as he walked into their little house, his previously sandy bare feet now wrapped in thick socks and sturdy boots. “I can have Aunt ‘Dromeda teach me how to paint them first. Georgie gave her special watercolors for Teddy, but he likes to share his things with me. We can paint Granddad’s favorite buildings together.”</p><p>“Andromeda knows better than to trust anything George gives Teddy—”</p><p>“Teddy knows better than to take anything with George’s brand stamped on it—”</p><p>Hermione suppressed a groan just as Scorpius let out a peal of loud, delighted laughter when he clocked in on the intruders sitting around their living room. She had allowed each person access past her impeccable, unyielding wards, but now she recognized that she had not stressed the importance of boundaries when telling them they were allowed into her home when necessary.</p><p>Not that she trusted Slytherins and a Weasley to know what boundaries were, but she always had a little more faith in Luna Lovegood. </p><p>“I better still have a tin full of biscuits,” Hermione warned as she dropped her satchel and Scorpius’ beach bag of toys by the door, her eyes narrowing at Theodore Nott before looking at Pansy and Blaise. “And I better still have wine.”</p><p>“Your Tesco wine is safe,” said Blaise with an amused huff just as Pansy wrinkled her nose. “The same can’t be said for your chocolate biscuits. You know they’re Theo’s favorite.”</p><p>“Mummy knows,” Scorpius told Blaise as he crawled out of Ginny’s tight embrace, moving over to Luna’s outstretched, inviting arms. “She likes the cinnamon ones, so she buys the chocolate for Uncle Theo.”</p><p>Hermione scowled at her son’s betrayal before pointing a threatening finger at the leering Slytherins. “Shut it,” she growled.</p><p>“You pretending like Nott isn’t your favorite is annoying as ever,” said Pansy as she stood from the overcrowded sofa, her smooth hands running down the intricate silk of her dress. “I know you’re angry there appears to be an inquisition waiting for you, but next time you decide to skive off work with the little dragon I babysit, warn me.”</p><p>“She was worried,” Luna told Hermione, her gentle, whimsical tone making Pansy aim her glare at her now. It did not make Luna stop smiling, however; she continued to press kisses on Scorpius’ cheeks and nose, all while Blaise and Theo marveled at her like she hung the moon in the night sky. “Scared, too. She quite loves you, Hermione.”</p><p>“I do <em> not</em>,” Pansy hissed, but still crossed her arms like a petulant child. “It took ages for Mrs. Weasley to like me, you think I would risk her fury if she knew <em> I </em> was the last person to have seen Granger and the monster before they disappeared? No, I was merely trying to secure my wedding to Ron.”</p><p>Ginny snorted. “Anyone else still absolutely confused as to why Parkinson is so infatuated with my brother?”</p><p>“I still think she’s having a laugh—”</p><p>“Ron is rather very funny—”</p><p>“Maybe Weasley’s got a huge—”</p><p>“<em>Enough</em>,” Hermione hissed, aiming a kick at Theo’s ankle before he could finish creating that disturbing image in the presence of her child, one that Pansy was not helping as she grinned wickedly. “Scorp and I went to the beach. Now we’re home. You lot can leave now.”</p><p>The bubble of amusement that wrapped the group slowly started to fray around the edges. They all knew by now why she had not made it to the Ministry, unable to face the ghost that haunted them just as it haunted her, but they also were aware who she went to see during those travels to the sea. </p><p>Luna clung on to Scorpius a bit tighter just as Theo put a hand on the back of his blonde head, fingers tenderly running through the messy, sea-salt scented strands. Blaise, ever the master of masking his expressions, allowed something like sympathy to glitter in his gaze as Ginny narrowed her eyes at Hermione, studying every centimeter of her body like she could find where her grief was leaking from. </p><p>Pansy was the only one willing to say what they were all thinking: “You’ve made a choice. About <em> him</em>.”</p><p>Blaise stood from where he sat tucked between his two partners. Theo’s free hand reached out to wrap around his wrist, but Hermione knew it was not to force him back in his place; she had spent enough time around them, knew them enough to know when they were communicating without words.</p><p>“How about dinner over at ours, hmm?” Luna asked as Scorpius stopped playing with the bottlecap necklace around her pale throat. “I promise we can have pudding before our vegetables.”</p><p>Scorpius beamed. “Yes, please.”</p><p>“Sounds perfect, Luna,” Hermione offered a small, grateful smile as the latter stood, her son still in her friend’s slender arms like Scorpius was still three years old and his second favorite resting place was against Luna’s chest.</p><p>“Uncle Theo can’t have pudding, huh, Auntie Lu? He already ate so many biscuits.”</p><p>“He never has to know, Granger,” Blaise murmured when Theo stayed beside him, his fingers squeezing, giving him support to further add, “We’ll keep the secret. We’ll make the Unbreakable Vow.”</p><p>Hermione looked away from Luna distracting Scorpius; she brought her hands to her eyes, rubbing at them before letting out a sigh. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. You've kept the truth to yourselves all this time. You don't owe me anything.”</p><p>“You’re our <em> friend— </em>”</p><p>“Malfoy is, too,” she reminded Blaise. “An Unbreakable Vow will only serve to hurt everyone in the end. Just...Just promise me you will always protect Scorpius no matter what happens next.”</p><p>Blaise did not bother to conceal the emotion beneath his next words: “He will always come first, Granger. We swear it.”</p><p>“I know,” Hermione whispered, looking between Blaise and Theo, “I trust you.”</p><p>Both reached out to touch her. Neither had to say how much it meant to them to hear those words, even if Hermione had said it to them before. They had earned her gratitude, loyalty, and affection, just as she had earned theirs. </p><p>“For the record, Granger,” Pansy informed as she raised her chin, “I wasn’t worried you’d run off.”</p><p>“She’d find you anywhere you went—”</p><p>“You’re her <em> best friend,</em> after all—”</p><p>Pansy narrowed dark, deadly eyes at Blaise and Theo. They laughed obnoxiously at the expression as they walked over to Luna and Scorpius. “Come to dinner or don’t, I don’t really care,” she said to Hermione with that glare firmly in place, even though Pansy’s sharp tone suggested the latter had no choice but to show up to the Zabini-Nott-Lovegood home, “but I am keeping your little monster overnight.”</p><p>“My son isn’t having a sleepover, Pansy. He’s got lessons with Andromeda tomorrow morning.”</p><p>“Coming, Ginny?” Pansy inquired after rolling her eyes at Hermione just as Luna and Scorpius went through the Floo, the flames glittering in different shades of emerald just as Blaise and Theo followed right behind them. </p><p>“Yes,” said Ginny, but she made no move to stand. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest. </p><p>As she fastened her cloak around her shoulders, Pansy leered at Hermione, “<em>That</em>,” she pointed a manicured finger at Ginny, “is what you get for not telling me where you were going. Had you owled or Flooed me about your whereabouts, I would’ve warned you about Hurricane Weaslette touching down.”</p><p>Agitated as she was at the intruding, overbearing Slytherins, Hermione almost asked Pansy to stay, but the latter was already throwing Floo Powder into the fireplace, cackling until the flames ate her up.</p><p>Hell hath no fury like a righteous Weasley woman, after all.</p><p>“I know why you’re here,” Hermione cut through the silence before it could linger. Not that it would—not when Ginny narrowed her eyes the way she had been doing even before they were left alone. Her glower reminded Hermione of the one she often wore in the quidditch pitch, readying herself to pummel anyone from the opposing team. Hermione would have been more concerned for her safety if she was not especially skilled with defensive talents, or if, despite all that visible, bubbling frustration, Ginny did not love her like they weren’t sewn together by gold thread. </p><p>“Good. Then you know you’re being a right arsehole.”</p><p>Hermione scoffed as she waved her wand over Scorpius’ things, sand being pulled from them, gathering up like a deformed castle before it vanished. “I hope you said the same thing to Harry before he convinced you to come fight his battles for him,” she told Ginny as she then proceeded to put her son’s belongings into a toy chest she allowed in the living room. </p><p>Ginny rolled her eyes. “Of course I did,” she stated with a scoff of her own, conjuring the bottle of Tesco wine Pansy had open the night before. She adjusted herself down against the sofa, taking a large gulp as she tucked her knees beneath herself. “Gave him a good smack on the head, too. Ron as well, of course. Both are complete twats.”</p><p>“And yet you’re still here to plead their case?”</p><p>“I’m here,” Ginny grit out, pointing the bottle accusingly at Hermione now, “because <em> you </em> happen to be my friend, too. And if it hadn’t been for a panicked Floo Call from Harry or an extremely vague, extremely annoying owl from Parkinson, I wouldn’t know the Malfoys were back from the dark depths of hell—otherwise known as fucking Azkaban. If I hadn’t shown up, you wouldn’t have told me until my training was over.”</p><p>After shutting the lid of the chest closed, Hermione used her wand to steal the bottle of wine from Ginny’s grip. “You’re training,” she reminded. “You shouldn’t be drinking. Nor should you be troubling yourself with my ghosts coming back to haunt me.”</p><p>“For the Brightest Witch of the Age, you sure are stupid,” huffed Ginny, a smirk tucking itself into the corner of her mouth. “If you truly were smarter, you’d know true friendship isn’t dependent on only good times, but the bad ones, too. And this is bad, ‘Mione.”</p><p>Hermione refused to meet Ginny’s perceptive gaze a second too soon so she settled on bringing the bottle to her mouth, tilting it back and taking a long, desperate drink from it. She knew it was too sweet for Pansy’s refined tastes, but for Hermione, it was enough to mask the memory of green apples and regret she couldn’t swallow away. </p><p>“I have no intention of forgiving Harry nor Ron,” she told Ginny, clearing her throat as she set the bottle on the coffee table. “They <em> lied</em>. For years, they looked at me and kept the truth to themselves. Even after I had Scorpius.”</p><p>“It’s because you had Scorpius that they kept lying.” When a glare that could cause terror in others took hold of Hermione, Ginny only settled further into the soft, comfortable cushions of her furniture. “I’m not justifying their choice, so please stop looking at me like Moaning Myrtle did my Fifth Year after she found out Harry and I were a thing.”</p><p>“This isn’t funny, Gin—”</p><p>“I’m not laughing, am I?” With a steady breath, Ginny then said, “I’m doing what I’ve always done for you three—I’m seeing things from each side. And yes, you have absolutely every right to curse them, hate them, never forgive them, but see it from their end, too. They thought the war stole more than your parents and your childhood, Hermione. They thought someone <em>raped— </em>”</p><p>“My virginity didn’t belong to Harry nor Ron—”</p><p>“Of course it didn’t!” Ginny shouted, her legs coming out from under her as she leaned forward, fire burning in her eyes. “But what the hell were they supposed to think when you told us you were pregnant a few weeks after the war? You three always had an eye on each other, protecting each other’s backs, until one night when Harry and Ron were forced down into a cellar and all they could hear was you screaming.”</p><p>Hermione shook her head like she could get the memory to fall out one of her ears. </p><p>“It never made sense, ‘Mione,” said Ginny after a moment of silence, her ferocity and volume dialing down. “It never made sense that you got down on your knees and begged Kingsley to spare Draco Malfoy. Nor did it make sense that you tried time and time again to see him in Azkaban before his trial.”</p><p>Toeing off her sandals, Hermione sat on the edge of the coffee table, swiping the bottle of wine back. Her fingers wrapped around the neck, twisting. “So which theory was the worst? That Malfoy had his way with me or that I loved him?”</p><p>Ginny raised a sharp, auburn brow. “Did you?”</p><p>“I didn’t know him well enough to love him.”</p><p>“But well enough to give him what was left of yourself?” asked Ginny. “Enough to bore him an heir?”</p><p>Hermione wanted to tell her friend she never had any intention of taking a piece of Draco Malfoy with her when she left him behind in their old Potions classroom. Had she known (had she <em> remembered</em>) he had a habit of claiming things that were not his, she would’ve never let him take her body, conquering almost every inch of her skin with unforgiving, desperate fingers and a repenting, sweet mouth.</p><p>“Ron will never forgive Malfoy, but you know Harry tried,” Ginny then said, her hands coming to settle on top of Hermione’s. The same twisted, suffocating knot formed at the base of her throat, reminding Hermione of the excruciatingly brief comfort she had felt sitting beside her mother hours before. “He knew Malfoy never had a choice. Harry was prepared to fight the entire wizengamot to secure his freedom, but the murder charge was presented. Then you were pregnant. Harry could forgive the war crimes Malfoy was forced to commit, but <em> hurting you</em>? Malfoy was fortunate to have left with his life, Hermione, because Harry would kill for you.”</p><p>With a shaky breath, Hermione closed her eyes: Mrs. Weasley was on her left, squeezing her shoulder, smiling wide as she shouted encouragements welcoming Scorpius into the world, but Harry had been on Hermione’s right, clutching on to her hand, his terrified emerald eyes staring straight at her with an unvoiced but heard <em> you’re going to be okay, ‘Mione. I’ve got you both. I promise. </em></p><p>“Harry’s an idiot,” said Ginny, a smile once again tugging at her mouth, “but he always means well.”</p><p>“And yet you still broke up with him,” Hermione huffed, letting Ginny wipe a stray tear from her cheek before stealing the wine back. “How come I’m not allowed to stay angry at him for a few years?”</p><p>“Cheers for still telling people I broke up with him,” said Ginny with a laugh before taking a more moderate sip from the bottle. When she swallowed it down, she added, “Harry ended things between us because he thought I deserved to chase my dreams and not be worrying about him running off into battle so quickly after the war ended. If you recall, I was livid—”</p><p>“You burned half of Grimmauld Place down—”</p><p>“But, in time, I understood why he did it,” said Ginny with a snort at Hermione’s impeccable memory. “It didn’t stop me from absolutely hating him—”</p><p>“And having the occasional angry, post-breakup shag with him—”</p><p>“The point is,” Ginny emphasized with a smack aimed at Hermione’s bare shoulder, “that despite being a complete dickhead sometimes, Harry always means well. He’s learned to use his head, Hermione. <em> You </em> taught him to use that, not only as the fucking Chosen One, but as Head Auror and a friend. Be angry at him, burn down the other half of Grimmauld Place, shag him if you want to, but eventually hear him out.”</p><p>She really didn’t want to.</p><p>Despite feeling that <em> coward </em> weigh her down, etched down her spine like another burst of Dark Magic she couldn’t conceal, Hermione knew she also avoided showing up at the Ministry because she couldn’t face Harry and Ron. She was furious at them, had more than half a mind to curse and then punch their teeth in, but looking at them would force other memories she kept behind her barriers.</p><p>She would see herself sat in a cold, bright room in St. Mungo’s, the projection of her womb before her, carrying a little seed she had never intended to plant. </p><p>She would see herself standing at the end of a corridor, a trembling hand on her stomach as the sound of Draco’s chains still echoed in the distance.</p><p>She would see herself hiding in the corner of her bedroom, her palms pressed against her ears, sobbing just as loud as a week-old Scorpius alone in his crib. </p><p>“Malfoy’s back,” Hermione breathed, opening her eyes to find Ginny still watching her with patience and loyalty that was all ferociously Weasley. </p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“What am I supposed to do now, Gin?”</p><p>The wine was offered back to Hermione just as Ginny’s eyes turned to the fireplace. It made her look at it, too, like they both could still see Scorpius in Luna’s arms, three old rivals flanking them, ready to protect, die, and love them until their last days. </p><p>“You might’ve not known the Malfoys were exiled, Hermione,” there was a softness in Ginny’s voice she had not heard in years, not since those dark, early treacherous weeks where Hermione had not known how to connect to her child, “but you always knew one day you’d bring them into Scorpius’ life. After all, you chose to raise him among lions <em> and </em> snakes.”</p><p>Bringing the bottle to her mouth, Hermione took a sip to dissolve the knot in her throat. “I have to tell him,” she said, but those words sounded like a question she wanted Ginny to answer despite knowing she wouldn’t. “I have to tell Malfoy we have a son.”</p><p>“I know,” Ginny said again. Then, “And he’ll start a war because of it.”</p><p>Hermione took a larger drink. “He will,” she declared, “and I still don’t know if Malfoy and I will ever fight on the same side.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. stars and tea leaves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> i believe in nothing, not in sin and not in god </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The stars had shaped a dragon in their midst.</p><p>Hermione had spent the previous night staring out of her bedroom window, practicing the fanciful, imprecise art of reading constellations to decipher the future to come. Her brain had screamed at her to close the curtains, crawl back into bed, and chase sleep instead of silly practices, but her heart was beating too loudly for her to settle. The echo of that frenzied sound had pushed her to the window, begging her to find clues of the consequences her choice will have. Maybe it was delusion—maybe it was the only four hours of sleep in the past few days that had her squinting at the night sky, thinking she would see bleeding stars forming a neon sign, telling her to grab Scorpius and blend into the shadows where they would never be found. Instead, her heavy, exhausted eyes caught a wing. She followed it with a fingertip, tracing it back to a dragon shining brighter than moonlight. </p><p>Draco Malfoy hovered over the night sky and her home, watching and protecting.</p><p>It wasn’t real, of course.</p><p>Even when morning came in with a dull, gloomy orange and Hermione found herself twisting the curls at the nape of her neck to comply them into a smooth ponytail, her brown eyes lost on the sky, she knew it was a ridiculous prediction. </p><p>The truth of that realization started with Harry. </p><p>After kissing Scorpius on the cheek, after pressing him close to her like she could keep him safe inside her chest, right next to a heart he owned, healed, and gave reason to, Hermione left Andromeda Tonks’ house with dread weighing down every one of her steps. She kept looking behind her shoulder like Draco would be vanquishing her shadow, ready to push her into the nearest corner to put his hands around her throat.</p><p>To kill or kiss her, Hermione wasn’t sure—which it would be or which she wanted. </p><p>What she did know was that her magic was humming, her restraint wearing thin, coaxing the power she kept calm and collected to rush out of her. To lose control. Like it had done those years ago, deceiving Hermione to walk further into that Potions classroom, her trembling, brave, reckless hand touching Draco on the arm, making his tired, grieving, scornful eyes look away from his demons and right at her. </p><p>“How are your parents?”</p><p>The fingers that wrapped around her left wrist did not belong to the person the stars predicted she would stumble upon first. She knew that before she felt the warm touch; not just because she had absolutely no faith in the cheap magic tricks Divination sold, but rather a skill she had perfected ages ago. </p><p>Hermione would always know when Harry and Ron were near.</p><p>She finished reading the sentence she had been picking apart, slowly closing the file she had borrowed from the DRCMC two days prior, before fixing brown eyes on Harry’s remorseful green. Had it not been for a patch of blue darkening the edge of his mouth, Hermione would have kept walking, leaving him alone with the consequences of his own choices. </p><p>“It’s nothing. Just a promise I made,” Harry tightened his grip around her wrist when she raised her hand, fingertips trying to touch the bruise. “When Zabini joined the Aurors, I told him he couldn’t shut down. This line of work isn’t easy, especially when you have memories of war. I told him if he couldn’t find the words, I’d spar with him and let him win.”</p><p>“You have a habit of breaking promises,” Hermione told him, tugging herself free only to bring the pads of her fingers to the side of his stubbled jaw. “This should’ve been another. You’re his <em> Head Auror</em>—”</p><p>“In this place, yeah,” Harry interrupted, once more reaching to grab her hand. She glared at him, but he did not falter in pulling her a centimeter closer to him. “But out there I’m his friend. And I hurt him. I hurt <em> you</em>.”</p><p>Hermione had every intention to aim a kick at his shin, but instead, that angry magic vibrating just beneath her skin shoved him back through the double doors of their training room. He stumbled for a second before regaining his footing, his arms crossing over his chest.</p><p>“You would’ve kept your lie,” she accused through gritted teeth, the file in her hand slipping. “Don’t pretend you’re sorry for hurting me when you would’ve never told me the truth.”</p><p>“You don’t know that—”</p><p>“I know <em> you</em>!” Hermione hissed, another wave of magic rippling out, causing him back another few steps, this time his jaw clenched at the stinging, invisible energy. “This is just like you promising you wouldn’t give yourself to Voldemort, but still seeing you dead across the courtyard!”</p><p>“For fuck sakes, Hermione, I needed to do that!”</p><p>“You didn’t need to do <em> this</em>!” She was shrugging off her outer robes just as she toed off her black boots. Across her, Harry pulled his long, disheveled hair out of his face, tying it with an elastic he’d stolen right out of her braid just the week before. “You didn’t need to hide him from me!”</p><p>Harry put a bare foot forward, crouching just slightly. “I’m sorry you’re upset, Hermione,” he said, emerald eyes sharp and determined behind his glasses, “but I won’t apologize for choosing you and Scorpius. Keeping the secret was the only way to make sure you two would be all right. We’ve seen what grieving, damaged people have done to the families of Death Eaters, we’ve seen the prejudice from each side—I wasn’t going to let you face that. Not again.”</p><p>For a moment, she was sure she was going to shove every red-drenched emotion into neat boxes, storing them behind that brick wall that kept every ghost from breaking free, but instead, Hermione lunged. </p><p>She could go one-on-one with Ron and come out the victor because he always prepared for the predictable. Although they had secured years of fighting alongside each other, learning signature moves and spells, Harry knew better than to assume he understood Hermione’s mind. She had surprised him too often with an experimental hex or abrupt uppercut to formulate her fighting technique. </p><p>And because she knew he had assumed she would turn on her heels, Hermione was <em> almost </em> pleasantly surprised that Harry was also quick to plant his weight more firmly on the floor when her legs wrapped around his hips. She twisted around to his side; she managed to drive her elbow against the nape of his neck twice before he seized her arm and flung her off.</p><p>“You could’ve asked,” she snarled, kicking forward. Harry blocked the first, but the second hit him in the abdomen, as did the third. “You could’ve asked what happened with him and I would’ve told you!”</p><p>Fingers gripped her ankle, yanking until she fell on her left knee. Harry pulled out his wand from the sleeve of his old hoodie, pointing it at her face. “I did ask.”</p><p>“You asked if he took from me—” Pushing herself up with her right palm slammed against the floor, Hermione managed to unbend her left leg, driving it forward to knock Harry’s wand from his hand. “And I told you I gave it to him. There’s more to the story, Harry. You could’ve asked for the rest of it. Instead, you thought you were saving me from a monster.”</p><p>When she rushed to stand, Harry thrust an arm up, blocking his face from a fist Hermione punched in his direction. His emerald eyes followed, knowing better than to expect another fist, and she did not disappoint the blow he anticipated by charging at him. She had planned to duck her head and drive it against his middle, forcing him over her shoulder, but he clutched her waist, flipping her upside down. </p><p>Hermione wrapped her legs around his neck, squeezing. Even with the light of the training room reflecting off his glasses, she could see his eyes turning as red as his contorted face. Had Harry been Ron, she was sure she could have tightened her thighs until he lost enough oxygen to pass out, but this best friend had earned the title of Head Auror by being unyielding against everyone he faced. </p><p>Divination was not needed to predict what came next: the hands gripping Hermione’s waist slid up, thumbs harshly prodding into her ribcage just as Harry rammed his knee against the center of her spine. She loosened her legs around him, her left heel kicking down against the back of his head, but he was already dropping her. Hermione gasped, her bones aching even without Harry’s weight locking her in place.</p><p>“You don’t need saving, Hermione,” he told her, voice as cold as a Head Auror interrogating someone in chains. “You need a reminder that his hands are stained red.”</p><p>Dragging in a deep breath, she closed her eyes. In the darkness, a <em> Daily Prophet </em> article appeared—<b>DRACO MALFOY ACCUSED OF MURDERING FELLOW DEATH EATER CORBAN YAXLEY.</b> </p><p>It was the one charge a Death Eater had received that the public hadn’t rioted over. They had wanted death, blood, money, and souls as reparations for the war that had destroyed their world, but Yaxley’s demise was met with silence. Indifference. The public would have forgiven the blood on Draco’s hands had Voldemort’s evil not been tattoed on his skin and the brutal legacy of Malfoy not attached to his first name.</p><p>After all, a monster didn’t stop being a monster because he killed one.</p><p>“I love Scorpius,” Harry said, warmth trickling back into his tone as he pushed up on his forearms, “and I love you. You’re my family. I’ll do anything to protect you, even if you hate me for it. You get that, right?”</p><p>She refused to open her eyes when the next words left her mouth: “I can’t hide the same truth you kept from me,” the <em> coward </em> down her spine burned again, reminding her it had etched itself onto her skin. “I can’t show Scorp another a face that won’t see him for who he is.”</p><p>Harry gently pinched her chin, a habit he had picked up after their first raid as new Aurors. It could’ve been tender had she not known he was searching for another crack to her already shattered pieces, tallying up her damage like he had given it to her. “He has <em> us. </em>”</p><p>“Someone tell the Minister we found his Head Auror—” Hermione wished she had not gone rigid at the sound of Luke Jasper’s voice. It had nothing to do with his presence, as unwanted and frustrating as it was; no, it had everything to do with MACUSA’s Head Auror never parading himself through the Ministry without Draco Malfoy at his side. </p><p>“You know, Potter,” the amusement in Jasper’s voice made Hermione open her eyes, tilting her chin up and out of Harry’s touch just so she could glare at him, “in New York, this would be considered sexual harassment. Unless, of course, those rumors circling you and Ms. Granger have always had some truth to it. If that’s the case, this is just inappropriate for the workplace.”</p><p>Draco was not the only one with Jasper, but his silver eyes and white-blonde hair were the only colors Hermione could see even if the training room had suddenly flooded in vibrant, kaleidoscope hues. He stood tall and cruelly handsome, all dark, expensive suit molded to his broad body and sharp, moonlit gaze narrowed right at her.</p><p>Pushing himself up, Harry wrapped his fingers around Hermione’s elbows to bring her to her feet, too. A nonverbal brought his discarded wand back into his hand; a wave of his wrist collected the DRCMC file and Hermione’s robes from the floor. </p><p>“Our DMLE established a hand-to-hand training program last year,” Ron informed through clenched teeth, making himself known to Hermione as he trudged past Jasper. Blaise and Miles were right behind him. “We run physical drills twice a week or as needed by the individual Auror.”</p><p>“MACUSA offers a boxing program. Not many Aurors participate, of course. Why fight with one’s hands when there’s magic? Usually, it’s those with muggle roots that sign up,” Jasper commented like he was giving out his coffee order, barely interested in the monotony, but he still grinned wide as he took a step away from the double doors. “I can show you some physical drills, Ms. Granger, if you show me some of yours.”</p><p>Hermione wrapped a hand around Ron’s arm as she leaned against him, pretending she needed to balance against something as she zipped up her left boot. “<em>Auror </em> Granger,” she corrected, that overly polite smile tugging at her mouth while her eyes remained sharp and infuriated. “And there won’t be much time for sparring when we have a murderer to catch.”</p><p>Jasper’s hazel eyes traveled down her wrinkled attire, grinning even more wickedly as she ran a hand down herself, magic rendering her clothes pristine and crisp again. “I was under the impression you were no longer working the Greyback case, <em> Hermione</em>.”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I be?” she questioned, her nails digging into Ron now as he twitched, signaling he was ready to strike. “It’d be absurd to assign one of the best Aurors the department has to anything else. Isn’t that right, sir?”</p><p>Harry frowned when Hermione turned to him, but still gave a terse nod as he stuffed his hand into the pocket of his hoodie. </p><p>“Crabbe Sr. talked,” Blaise spoke up, cutting through the laughter that burst out of Jasper. Hermione noticed the glimmer of betrayal and fury that he had felt toward Harry was no longer flashing at them. She knew Blaise was skilled enough to hide even a hurricane uprooting solid foundations, but somewhere between punching Harry and last night’s dinner, he had released what she was still not ready to part with. </p><p>“He always does.”</p><p>“Yes,” Blaise said to Harry, “but there was something finally useful in all that bullshit he spews. He gave me a name.”</p><p>Hermione raised a brow, speaking before Harry could ask the obvious. “I have cross-referenced every name Crabbe Sr. has ever given us. Aside from Death Eaters, none of those has had a connection to Fenrir Greyback.”</p><p>Blaise almost smirked at her agitation, she could tell, but Hermione’s scowl made him clear his throat instead. “There was a bloke named Silas Saint he mentioned a few times. He was a thief that often acquired items for some of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. He was also an unregistered werewolf. He died when Crabbe Sr. was a boy,” he rushed the last bit when Hermione wrenched her file from Harry, already flipping through the pages. </p><p>“What good does a dead animal do for us, Auror Zabini?”</p><p>Years of evading death and bludgers made Harry too quick for Hermione to intercept; she had reached an arm out, attempting to block his furious path ahead, but he dodged it. The twisted mirth on Jasper’s face melted into distinct focus, his hand reaching to the holster attached to his sleek, black belt where he kept his wand. </p><p><em> Remus</em>.</p><p>That had to be the only person Harry was thinking about when he raised his own wand, Hermione could see it in the way the emerald in his eyes flared. Rage still made her bones ache when she looked at him, but she knew she had to reel Harry back from his next mistake. When she wedged herself between the two Head Aurors, she caught Draco’s cool, metallic gaze as she flushed her back against Harry’s chest and shoved. </p><p>The other Aurors had moved just as fast as Harry had done, immediately flanking his sides, ready to strike with or without magic, but Hermione watched as Draco remained locked in his place a step behind Jasper. </p><p>Kingsley and Robards had given a brief overview of what the last five years had looked like for the Malfoys, but she had wondered the extent of Draco’s position. He could not be an Auror, of course; he was still serving his sentence, a prisoner without visible, solid chains, but he worked with variations of the DMLE. And while he was being traded between governments, hunting down Death Eaters and other criminals, Draco was now making it clear that he was not loyal to Head Auror Jasper or MACUSA. </p><p>Not like he had been loyal to their Ministry of Magic and its people when he became a Death Eater. </p><p>“Granger and Potter are prominent activists for Werewolf Rights,” Hermione blinked away from Draco’s eyes, watching his mouth move like she was searching for confirmation that he was, in fact, speaking at all. “Using degrading terminology in their presence might not encourage the comradeship President Samuels expected.”</p><p>Jasper fixed his glare upon Draco.</p><p>“<em>Zabini</em>—”</p><p>“Crabbe Sr. referred to Silas as Saintly,” Blaise said when Harry hissed at him, demanding he continue as he lowered his wand and slid it into the pocket of his sweatpants. “I knew I’d heard that nickname before.”</p><p>“Salem Crump,” Miles added, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Zabini and me picked him up before Atlas Greyback’s last disappearance. He and some other twats were refusing to close their tab at the Leaky despite being thoroughly pissed. Crump’s friends kept calling him Saintly, but it didn’t register then. I mean, the only reason we even remember the arrest is because it was Hannah’s first shift as barmaid. She had them roped and halfway unconscious by the time we showed up.”</p><p>Hermione felt Harry let out a breath, but his rage pounded harder than his heartbeat, threatening to explode right out of his chest. “Silas Saintly is Silas Crump, then? And Salem’s his, what, grandson?”</p><p>“Great-nephew,” Miles informed with a snort. “Uncle Saintly might’ve been a werewolf, but he did not have a pack, let alone associated with the likes of Fenrir Greyback. Salem, on the other hand, went to Durmstrang around the same time as Atlas.”</p><p>“A coincidence is circumstantial evidence,” Jasper turned from Draco, sneering at the others now. “<em>Laughable </em> circumstantial evidence, no less.”</p><p>Miles rolled his thick, burly shoulders back, the bones cracking, but Blaise bared white teeth as he smirked. “Shit I expect MACUSA Aurors to present,” he told Jasper, “but here we work alongside the Brightest Witch of the Age. We know to do our research. Because we do,” before looking back at Harry, Blaise made sure his expression conveyed how irrelevant he found the other Head Auror, “Bulstrode and I spent all of yesterday reaching out to old informants. Someone had a son who went to Durmstrang when Salem Crump and Atlas Greyback were there and said they were close.”</p><p>“How close?” Harry inquired.</p><p>“The <em> fucking </em> kind.” Blaise openly laughed at Hermione’s scowl.</p><p>Harry’s hands came to her sides, pressing flesh twice before he took a step back. She wanted to look over her shoulder and assure that he had composed himself into the professional, level-headed Head Auror he needed to be, but Draco’s jaw ticked when his silver eyes continued to linger where Harry had touched her. </p><p>“We’ll have to do some digging,” Ron said, still failing to swallow down his hatred for Jasper, “and see what we can bring Crump in for.”</p><p>“Shouldn’t be hard,” Miles let out another snort. “The DMLE has a record on him. All petty crimes, but someone like that doesn’t live on the straight and narrow every single day. He’ll pop up on our radar soon enough.”</p><p>“Now rather than later, Bulstrode,” Harry ordered as he moved toward the double doors. “You and Zabini find something to bring him in for.<em>Tonight</em>. Ron, you and Hermione will have to go through Atlas Greyback’s records again. If we missed his connection with Salem Crump, we might’ve missed something else.”</p><p>Jasper raised a hand, stopping Harry from shoving past him. “Potter,” he started, eyes still narrowed but that taunting grin back on, “you and I are seeing Fenrir Greyback. Shacklebolt scheduled it.”</p><p>Harry returned the glare, giving a dismissive nod, but Ron let out a noisy scoff, saying, “Mind as well give MACUSA something to do.”</p><p>She should’ve moved. </p><p>The bleeding <em> coward </em> carved on her back stung and oozed, demanding Hermione to tuck herself beneath Harry and Ron’s shadows as they made their way out, reminding her that she had built concrete walls and an iron cell to contain the haunting magnitude that was Draco Malfoy. Thinking she could turn that barrier into dust, open the door to that cage and step inside was just as reckless, just as stupid as thinking the stars would reveal a future where she was not irrevocably thrilled and terrified of him and the memory they shared. </p><p>Relief almost produced tears when Blaise offered her his hand, a tether securing her from blowing adrift with the storm that awaited, but Hermione felt something new engrave itself into the delicate, soft skin above her heart.</p><p><em> Mother</em>.</p><p>She was a mudblood and a coward—true, but despite all her faults and insecurities, she was a mother first. </p><p>Her hand fell back against her side before she took hold of the lifeline Blaise was presenting. His dark brows furrowed, uncertainty underlining the same vow of loyalty he tried to make the night before, but her deep breath communicated what she needed everyone to remember: <em> Scorpius first, no matter what</em>. </p><p>Blaise didn’t have to give any evidence that he understood what she left unsaid. His following the others out was enough. </p><p>A line creasing between Draco’s brows told her he had heard the silent conversation. He might not be able to decipher the context, but the skill of being able to communicate with someone without having to say anything aloud revealed more. While he’d been living in exile, hidden in the dark corners of allied countries, Hermione had been forming a bond with his best friend. Someone who had yet to approach Draco, but who had willingly stretched out a hand to Hermione to save her from him.</p><p>He had no idea how things had changed.</p><p>She wanted to tell him that, spit the truth out before her insides turned to ash and it fossilized there, but she wasn’t this version of herself. For a moment, Hermione heard herself five years ago, the sound ricocheting around her head:</p><p>
  <em> There’s nothing left of me, Malfoy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Harder.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t blame you. </em>
</p><p>She shuddered at the possibility that the last words she spoke to Draco would climb up her dry, parched tongue and dive right out of her mouth to crash and die in the distance between them, but she contained a sigh of relief when she instead offered: “Impressive work getting inside the Te-Moak reservation. I’ve read they hardly ever cooperate with MACUSA.”</p><p>Draco’s storming silver eyes never left her face when he raised his left arm. Hermione, however, followed how the fingers of his right hand tugged on the sleeve of his dark jacket. The ragged edges of the Dark Mark tainting his alabaster skin did not make her blink, but the thick, metal cuff just below it sparked outrage inside of her. </p><p>“The Te-Moak don’t know much about our country’s criminals,” he said. “They only saw someone MACUSA thinks they own and related.”</p><p>Hermione’s frown lingered on the cuff for another moment before staring back up at him. “They shouldn’t have put that on you.”</p><p>“Better than the chains in Azkaban.” Draco stepped closer and something pulled at her soul like a magnet. She had to dig the heels of her boots into the floor to stop herself from taking one in his direction, too. “Exile and unpaid work—more than what a Death Eater like me deserves, so get that righteous look off your face, Granger. I’m not a marginalized creature desperate for your help.”</p><p>For the past five years, Hermione had fought to keep her barriers firm and tall, but when they rattled and Draco escaped his cage, she wondered if he thought about her, too. She had assumed he loathed her even more, the annoying mudblood from his youth who had been his last warm touch before he was chained and locked inside his cold, lonely cell. But he had never been there, compelled to pick apart his mind and the last scraps of his freedom to delay insanity. The former guilt she had felt now twisted into bitter horror as she wondered if Draco thought she had known the fate that awaited him all along. Had he assumed that was why Hermione never made it to his trials? Because she had known the wizengamot would banish him from his homeland and shackle him to a duty of catching runaway war criminals? </p><p>Hate wasn’t in his eyes. </p><p>The grey brewed like unforgiving storms, capable of flooding anything in its path, but Draco had always looked at Hermione that way. Like she only stirred relentless waters rather than calm rain. </p><p>Her fingers twitched at her sides, remembering the way they had slid into his hair, that same frenzied gaze on her as she tugged at the roots and her nails scratched gently down his scalp.</p><p>As much as Hermione hoped the last sentences she had given Draco would never form back together and echo around them, she almost wished just as fervently that he released any variations of the last words he had said to her. To understand them. To stop convincing herself she had made them up in a haze of his greedy hands and the grief keeping the castle together. </p><p>To tell him those words had led to Scorpius.</p><p>“The last time I saw you,” Hermione said, her voice scraping the back of her throat like she had never spoken before, “we had just won a war.”</p><p>Draco glanced at her mouth before a smirk took up his. “The last time I saw you, you were slipping your knickers back on.”</p><p>
  <em> Take your knickers off, Granger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Come for me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I never wanted you to die.  </em>
</p><p>How could she have ever assumed Draco Malfoy would never take any chance he had to rile her up? Their twisted childhood was drenched in his insults and her clever retributions, after all. </p><p>“You said you’d testify for me, Granger,” he was closer now and Hermione didn’t know if he still tasted like crisp apples and regret, but she could smell traces of bergamot that still haunted her nightmares, “but you weren’t there.”</p><p>The tip of her tongue ran across her bottom lip and Draco zeroed in on its wet path. “I didn’t know,” she breathed. “I didn’t know about the exile.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“How do you—?”</p><p>There already were grey, obstructed storms in his stare, but Hermione could see through the thick clouds and there was a promise of thunder and chaos brewing in the depths of his eyes.  </p><p>“Does Potter know about that day?”</p><p>Her brows furrowed as she asked, “Does it matter?”</p><p>Any logical, sane person would have absolutely no faith in using stars or tea leaves to understand (let alone <em> guess </em> ) any future to come, but, for a single second, Hermione believed there was no wholly rational, stable mind that could have deduced what Draco did next. No, even <em> she </em> expected the cruel, taunting sneer that was a constant in their Hogwarts years—Merlin, she could’ve even devised an equation whose only solution was his hand wrapping around her throat, squeezing tight until her lungs begged for air. </p><p>Oxygen had escaped her body, but it was not a consequence of Draco crushing it out. It happened because that cool, mind-clouding bergamot grew potent as he stood barely an inch from her shivering body, his thumb tracing the path on her lip her tongue had made.</p><p>She was standing inside their old Potions dungeon again. Somehow, the training room had disappeared, Ministry walls transforming into broken, bare skeletons of what used to be an unbreakable fortress, and she could see Draco sitting among the rubble and ghosts. He knew someone had wandered down into the classroom, Hermione could see that in the way his shoulders tensed. The last person she wanted to share silence and shadows with was a Malfoy, but the blood coating his hair trickled down the side of his face. Her legs moved before she could tell herself to leave him there, her cut, bruised hands already reaching out—</p><p>“It matters,” Draco forced the memory away, his low, rough voice dragging Hermione back to the present, back to the training room where he swiped at her bottom lip. “I want Potter to know I fucked his best friend.”</p><p>And just like that, the thrill was gone. </p><p>The same wave of magic that had shoved Harry back burst out of Hermione again. While Harry had prepared for a physical fight, Draco smirked wickedly at her as he slid his hands into the pockets of fitted trousers. </p><p>“It wasn’t coincidental, was it?” Hermione demanded, fingers twisting the file in her grip. “You being at Herrera’s Cafe?”</p><p>“Brilliant as always, Granger.”</p><p>The lights of the training room flickered as she seethed. “<em> Why </em>?”</p><p>Draco shrugged, dark amusement breaking past the storms in his silver eyes, even as he said, “I could ask you the same—Why kiss me that day? Why let me have you?”</p><p>He had asked, but Hermione doubted he wanted the answers. Not yet, anyway. She hardly knew Draco Malfoy as something other than arrogant and conniving, but she was also smart enough to guess he wanted things handed to him when <em> he </em> deemed it was the right time. That was why he was turning, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest at her affronted expression, but she was not letting him leave.</p><p>And all it took was this: “I gave you something of mine that day, Malfoy, but I left with something of yours, too. His name’s Scorpius—our son.”</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. greedy little fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heyyyyyy, guys! I'm SO SORRY for such a late update. As life tends to hurl unexpected things at us, I found myself overwhelmed with all these things that writing was the last thing on my mind. </p><p>Thank you to all those who left such lovely comments and waited for this chapter! I'm so grateful for all of it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <em> for you i would ruin myself a million little times </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Grief flooded her lungs.</p><p>Hermione thought seeing Harry jump out of Hagrid’s arms—completely <em> alive</em>—would allow her to fill her body with air, but their victory had a bitter aftertaste. Every time she took a breath, it thickened on its way down, scraping, burning, until it turned to ash. She was gasping, but Ron wanted her close. He had already pulled out a needle to try and sow her to his side, connecting their ribs with unconquerable gold thread, but Ginny had caught Hermione’s panicked gaze. She pulled her brother into the shattered circle of Weasleys, arms caging each other in, trembling hands taking stock of those who remained. </p><p>She knew they would count her as a Weasley until the very end, but Hermione had belonged to the Grangers first. She had a loving, kind mother and a stubborn, intelligent father with an expiration date on those memories. A date that had been past due weeks ago. She knew the risks that came with tampering with someone’s mind, but keeping her parents alive while she helped save the wizarding world from Voldemort did not feel like a heavy price to pay. Not when it had been the only option. Yet, the searing pain of their loss rattled her bones, making itself known, making itself <em> felt</em>, when she saw Harry’s dead body across that destroyed courtyard. In that short, agonizing time, Hermione had lost everything; she wanted to cross the distance, take Harry from Hagrid and curl herself beside him, letting the earth reclaim them until they were only memories that no longer ached.</p><p>While Harry had lived, once again bleeding and sacrificing for others, Hermione remained hollow. She knew she would eventually try for a smile and a tender, comforting gaze when Ron once again pulled out his needle, murmuring promises of healing and their blossoming affection as he bound them together, and she knew, with Ron pressed to her side, that they would climb the broken staircase to Gryffindor Tower and find Harry, all three of them huddling together to seek warmth while trying not to crumble further by the deafening silence—but she needed a moment to herself before all of that. Just for a minute, Hermione needed the freedom not to pretend she was capable of seeing a new world bloom from the darkness and bloodshed that had defiled their childhood. </p><p>Hermione never expected to find Draco Malfoy doing the same.</p><p>Fury never came. That was the first thing she noticed when she walked into that old, broken Potions classroom and saw him there. It was not uncommon for Malfoy to stir up hurricanes inside of her, especially when there was a <em> mudblood </em> always accompanying a ridiculing sneer or look of disgust. She had not counted on the familiarity and comfort of hating (<em>pitying</em>, even) him because the world that remained had not left any traces of herself that Hermione could latch on to; instead, something like relief brewed chaos in her bloodstream. </p><p>She took a step inside that dungeon because Malfoy was not holding on to a flickering hope, breathing magic over the spark like it could ignite into a wildfire that would somehow devour the darkness that was left behind. No, he sat among the rubble and ash staring at his ghosts like he knew they would always be around, shadows always accompanying his own. </p><p>It was the truest thing Hermione had seen in the aftermath. </p><p>Magic and cement would be poured over the skeleton of Hogwarts School, building walls just as high, just as winding, the dead would be buried under damp, plush soil, tears washing away the pain for the sake of love, for the sake of preserving treasured memories, and their government would start scrubbing at all the black and red, gathering criminals, gathering debris until it was all hidden away and it all felt like a nightmare they could wake up from. </p><p>
  <em> You shouldn’t be here, Granger.  </em>
</p><p>That was the first thing Malfoy had said to her in over a year. She was hardly surprised by the emptiness of each word that left his dry, bruised lips. If Hermione could hardly conjure up old grudges, how could he? How could he when he had lost his very soul to this war? </p><p>She was not afraid of his demons. She might never understand, forgive, nor forget them, but she could acknowledge them. She could acknowledge that Malfoy was granted each haunting evil against his will. She could acknowledge that his choice was stolen, the last embers of his light being snuffed out by a madman with impossible expectations and the master he served. </p><p>Hermione could acknowledge that what was left of Malfoy mirrored her own—absolutely nothing. </p><p>He must have seen the same. </p><p>He must have been so desperate for someone with scars to see his own, too. That was the only way Hermione could make sense of Malfoy allowing her to get close enough for her fingertips to wipe at the blood still sticky against the side of his forehead, her cut-up hand then sliding through his blonde, matted hair. </p><p><em> I can’t breathe out there</em>, she confessed in a murmur, her palm pressing against the nape of his neck. His shoulders were still rigid from when he first noticed her at the door, but he now gritted his teeth at her warm, nervous touch. <em> Their hope isn’t real. </em></p><p>
  <em> Did my aunt carve out what was left of yours, then? </em>
</p><p>Hermione’s hand slipped away from him, her nails scraping at the tender, dirt-covered flesh, but he caught her wrist. She had faced-off against Malfoy often enough throughout the years to know what color his eyes were, but there was a new depth to the silver glimmer in his glare, like seeing the suffocating darkness beneath the thick, icy sheet of a frozen river in the middle of an unforgiving winter. </p><p>She had seen it that night in Malfoy Manor, too. Right before Bellatrix Lestrange’s curse had wrapped around her terrified, fragile body, forcing her to curl into herself on his expensive, bloodstained carpet. </p><p>He had looked at Hermione like he regretted everything that would come next.</p><p>He had looked at Hermione like he regretted everything that had come before. </p><p>But time was a complex, impossible thing even for wizards, so Malfoy closed his eyes at the ghosts that formed from the things he could not change. She saw him accept the weight of that, knowing even back in his drawing-room that he would never be able to wash off the red from his hands, nor would light ever break past to heal what remained of his black, twisted heart. </p><p>Maybe that was why she kissed him.</p><p>Maybe that was why, with his fingers still gripping onto her bruised wrist, Hermione closed the distance that had always existed between her and Malfoy—because, in that small moment of freedom, time did not matter. All the previous versions of themselves had vanished, revealing only the vessels the war had hollowed out. </p><p>If he was shocked or repulsed by her left hand slithering back into his messy hair, Malfoy did not show it. When she tugged on the blonde strands, he pulled on her wrist, his own rough, sliced hands moving to her hips. His tongue fought its way into her mouth like he had not spent years trying to get her to shut up; all while Hermione swallowed up the growl of desire he let out like she had not spent years relishing the groans of displeasure the end of her wand or wit caused. </p><p>She thought he would taste like the acerbic scent the castle was wrapped in, but instead the lingering sweetness of crisp apples brushed against her tongue. For a second, Hermione wondered if Malfoy would be able to distinguish the honeyed hope Ron had left on her lips when they kissed in the Room of Requirement, back when she shared in his dream that they would make it out of this war with fault lines instead of unrecognizable fragments. Hermione had grown into her love for her best friend, but when Malfoy stood from his seat on a broken desk, pushing her back against the surface, affection nor guilt tried to fight their way into her heart or head. </p><p><em> Don’t, </em> Malfoy grunted against her jaw, one of his hands moving from her hip to stop Hermione from pulling his belt from the buckle. <em> I’m not taking that from you.  </em></p><p><em> Taking what? </em> she demanded, hooking her leg around his, making those silver eyes flash before his teeth nipped at her skin. <em> There’s nothing left of me, Malfoy. </em> </p><p>Maybe Hermione should not have tempted him. </p><p>Maybe Hermione should have saved her virginity for clean, adoring hands, lit candles and rose petals decorating the room instead of debris and ghosts, but what if it would never be real? What if she never filled herself with faith and righteousness again? What if she ended up like those grieving, hopeful people on the other side of that door, desperate to believe the sun was going to burst gold and warm after this ruthless storm? </p><p>Regret could arrive, bruising her bones further than the purple and blue mess they were now, she knew that, but nothing felt more achingly real than Malfoy’s fingers caressing down her cheek only to then wrap around her throat.</p><p><em> Take your knickers off, Granger, </em> he commanded in a deep whisper, shock licking up her spine when she felt a wildfire start in the places she used to hear the girls in her dormitory giggle about. </p><p>As naive as those same girls thought her because her experiences came from reading about them, Hermione had been well aware of what would happen next. Her fingers did not tremble as she undid the buttons of her tattered jeans; she knew, as Malfoy continued to leave a trail of teeth marks down the column of her neck, his own fingers helping her pull down her zipper, what she was about to give up—what she was about to <em> feel</em>.</p><p>It had all been technical terms before; Hermione could still recall the texture and print of the pages in those biology and human sexuality textbooks she borrowed, never blushing when Madam Pince raised a brow at her, but she felt herself scorch pink now. Malfoy had his face buried in her knotted waves, breathing in smoke and grief, but his long fingers found her center, making her jump, making her hold her breath. </p><p>
  <em> Come for me. </em>
</p><p>It sounded like a plea.</p><p>Hermione was not too sure if it had been because Malfoy’s quiet voice distorted into her gasping, her fingers tugging on his hair just as the leg she had wrapped around him pulled him in closer. He had been staring at her face as he led her to pleasurable heights, but when she started to descend, he looked down, unbuckling his belt before undoing the zipper of his trousers.</p><p>When he started to guide himself to her entrance, she pushed up from the rickety desk, coiling her arms around his broad shoulders to flush herself against him. He tensed at her embrace, but Hermione did not let him hesitate. She tilted her hips, allowing the velvety hardness of his cock to slide in a fraction. She dug her nails in him after he let out a groan, finally allowing himself to slip all the way in. </p><p>She counted to twelve before Malfoy stilled.</p><p>Hermione knew he would be able to feel the resistance of her body against his foreign intrusion, but she had not counted on the way he would look when he pushed her back, jaw clenched as he glanced at their bodies connected before meeting her eyes.</p><p><em> There’s nothing left of me, Malfoy, </em> she repeated, careful fingertips caressing the cut on his left cheek. <em> Not really. And if this counts as something, then you can have it</em>. </p><p>Throughout the years, there had only been two times Hermione wished she knew how to read Draco Malfoy. The first had been in their Second Year, back when he first called her a mudblood. She, of course, had not been entirely sure what the slur had meant then, but once she knew the hatred that shadowed it, she wanted to know why. Why did Malfoy loath her over something Hermione could not control? How could he think she was unworthy of her magic when she out-performed students with pedigree and practice? Then, in their Sixth Year, she found herself once again pondering about his inner workings. She hadn’t bought into Harry’s suspicions, but even she could see Malfoy was withering away. She wanted to know what a pureblood heir had to take on with his father in prison? And did he regret his family’s place in all of this? </p><p>Now, as something attempted to melt the ice in his gaze, Hermione wanted to know why, for a fleeting second, he looked at her like she was giving him more than just her body. </p><p>Yet, like those times before when her mind was riddled with questions, Malfoy would never be a source for answers. When he slithered his hand back to her throat, she was hardly surprised that he then hid his face against her shoulder when he started to move. </p><p>Maybe it was guilt.</p><p>Maybe he did not want the burden of taking something else from her, not when his family had already chipped away at her peace, safety, and innocence since the moment she stepped foot into the wizarding world. </p><p><em> Harder, </em> she told him. </p><p><em> Harder </em>because there was no place for that remorse here. </p><p><em> Harder </em> because having Malfoy inside of her was the most alive Hermione thought she will ever feel after all of this.  </p><p>It was not Malfoy letting out a groan or the feel of him pulsing inside of her, spilling sticky heat that she felt down her thighs already, that told Hermione he had finished. It was the soft, unconscious feel of his lips kissing the side of her jaw. It was his hand loosening around her throat, slipping down to her chest, resting above her heart as he took a deep breath in.</p><p>In that time when he was pressed against her, buried to the hilt at her center, did he feel real, too? Did he feel the flame of life spark deep in his bones again? Did he think that maybe they could both survive with their ghosts and their scars inside that old potions classroom, too?  </p><p><em> I’m going to Azkaban, </em> Malfoy said as he pulled himself out of Hermione, breaking past illusions so the reality of their outside world could trickle in. <em> I’ll pay for my crimes, Granger. You can add this to the charges, too.  </em></p><p><em> I’ll be at your trials, </em> she told him as she slid her underwear and jeans back on. <em> I’ll testify in your defense. As will Harry. </em></p><p>That frozen depth of darkness was back in his silver eyes when he looked at Hermione. He had accepted his ghosts; he had accepted the blood on his hands and the black taint of his heart, and maybe he did not want her nor anyone else to try and clean it off his ledger. </p><p><em> You were wrong for a lot of things, Malfoy, </em> she spoke once he started to head for the broken door, <em> but the biggest crime you committed was being loyal to your family. You can’t be blamed for what they taught you.  </em></p><p>His shoulders were rigid again, that haunted silence filling the dungeon, but he then turned to look at her. He was guarded when he said, <em> I never wanted you to die.  </em></p><p><em> I know, </em> she murmured, sinking down to the vacant seat on that old desk he had left open. <em> I don’t blame you. For any of it. </em></p><p>“Mummy?”</p><p>Hermione turned from where the Floo had burned emerald to look at Scorpius tugging on the hem of her Auror robes, wide, curious eyes staring up at her before looking back at the stranger standing in front of their fireplace. </p><p>She had gotten lost in the past.</p><p>The moment she told Malfoy the truth, the version of him she often fought with herself to keep hidden away broke free. </p><p>Hermione had felt him pressed against her again—felt him inside of her again, smelling like grief and bergamot, tasting like crisp apples and regret for the things he could never change. Since his return, she had wondered when he would corner her under those familiar shadows, long fingers wrapping around her throat. To kiss or kill her, she wasn’t sure which he wanted. Still, the reckless thing in her chest wanted him to allow her to reacquaint with the feel and flavor of him, but her logical, reasonable mind had roared with satisfaction when he took a threatening step forward, baring sharp teeth. Immediately, the files she’d been clutching slipped from her grasp as she shot out a <em> Protego </em> and crouched into a defensive stance. </p><p>After all, this was what Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were good at—violently reducing each other into singular atoms. </p><p>She had hypothesized his rage, but never the demand of <em> where is he? </em>that left his mouth as he took another step forward, ignoring her wand rising an inch higher and closer to his face. In all the enraged outcomes she had prepared for, Malfoy believing her within seconds of Hermione’s confession left her rigid. Especially when the unrelenting silver of his eyes began to melt, rattling the memory of their one fleeting union, making it come alive.</p><p>Somewhere in the stretch of her silence and his rage, they ended up here. In her home that still smelled of her morning tea and the brine of Scorpius’ beach toys, a growing musk of bergamot and expensive aftershave trying to wedge itself in the open space between that comforting scent.  </p><p>“Scorp,” Hermione had to clear her throat twice, urging her voice to unstick itself from the back of her tongue, “this is...Draco Malfoy. He’s...um, Mummy’s friend.”</p><p>She could feel Malfoy’s glare burning a hole at the side of her head. </p><p>“Mummy’s friend?” Scorpius repeated, tilting his head to the side as he looked back at the man by the fireplace, moonlit eyes meeting moonshine. “Like Uncle Harry?”</p><p>“Something like that, sweetheart,” she muttered, placing a tender hand on Scorpius’ chubby cheek. </p><p>“Is he important like Uncle Harry? Because you always say Uncle Harry’s important.”</p><p>Like the coward she was, Hermione gently maneuvered her child between herself and Malfoy. The murderous glint in his cold gaze had melted away the second they marveled at Scorpius. She kept expecting outrage, confusion, or wrath to burst out of Malfoy like wings on the Angel of Death, but there was only growing awe. </p><p>She wondered what he was thinking when he looked at Scorpius. Was he trying to find other similarities than the obvious ones? Did he see the little crease between her—<em>their</em>—son’s brows, one he wore when he was concentrating on his tasks or when he knew he wasn’t going to get his way? Did Malfoy see it and wonder who Scorpius got it from, himself or Hermione? Did Malfoy see the constellation of freckles on her—<em>their</em>—son’s cheeks? Did he want to take a closer look and run a gentle fingertip over the spots, trying to connect them together and figure out what star they formed? Did Malfoy see the sharp angle of her—<em>their</em>—son’s jaw below a layer of boyish softness? Did he recall when he had looked the same at Scorpius’ age, and wondered if those cutting features would appear around the same time Malfoy had grown into his own? </p><p>“I like your ring,” Scorpius shattered the silence, pointing a finger at Malfoy’s hand. “It has dragons. I like dragons. Teddy and I painted some on Auntie ‘Dromeda’s wall once, and she wasn’t happy. Huh, Mommy? Auntie was really cross.” </p><p>“I told you,” Hermione said as she braved a look at Malfoy, “Andromeda minds him a few times a week. She homeschools the boys—but you two cause more mayhem than you actually spend time studying, don’t you, Scorp?”</p><p>Never one to not use that angelic smile that too often persuaded Hermione into giving him a chocolate biscuit before bedtime, Scorpius beamed at her. Something about the light he emitted had Malfoy stepping away from the Floo; Hermione saw him sliding his family’s crest off his long, pale finger as he crouched down to be as eye-level to her—<em>his</em>—son as possible. </p><p>She watched Malfoy swallow twice, run the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, before clearing his throat. “Here,” and still, there was a roughness in his voice that had nothing to do with that outrage, confusion, or wrath she kept expecting him to use as weapons against her, “you can have it.”</p><p>Scorpius blinked at the thick, platinum ring in Malfoy’s outstretched palm. He extended small, excitable fingers to the shiny object, but stopped. He looked up at Hermione, that little crease of concentration appearing as he then narrowed eyes at the gift. Before she could tell him it would be all right if he took it, Scorpius was racing to his toy chest. Hermione brought a hand to her temple, rubbing at the left side as he sunk his head and half his tiny torso in, his little arms flailing about as he searched among his possessions. </p><p>“Extension charm,” she murmured when Malfoy raised a brow. “I limit the number of toys I get him, but no one <em> else </em> seems to heed my warnings. Theo and Blaise are especially horrible at spoiling—”</p><p>The rage was back. </p><p>Hermione grimaced at the slip as Malfoy stood back up to all his overwhelming height. She could feel his hand wrapping around her throat; this time, she was absolutely sure he was going to squeeze until every ribbon of air her lungs had died imprisoned there, but before he could tower over her, claim her life as his, Scorpius returned.</p><p>“Here! For you, Mr. Draco!” he declared as he wedged himself between Hermione and Malfoy, his little pink palm holding out a big pink seashell. “Grandad and me saw this sea thingy leave it, and Grandad said he was looking for a bigger home, but that this one was special because it helped the thingy get big! I was saving it to get big, too, just as tall as Teddy, but you can have it now!”</p><p>The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched before a smile took over. Hermione blinked at the expression; she had seen him in various degrees of darkness, but light flickered out of him now like sneaky, morning rays of sunshine through an open slip of curtains. She had seen the glimmer before, back in that Potions classroom, back when he had finished spilling his seed inside of her, leaving a tender kiss on her jaw before he let his ghosts take him prisoner. </p><p>“Thank you, Scorpius,” Malfoy murmured, his hand engulfing her—<em>his</em>—son’s little one. When he slowly released it, Hermione watched him hesitate before tracing a thumb over Scorpius’ forehead, pushing aside his tousled, white-blonde curls. “And don’t worry, I think you’ll be as tall as Teddy in no time.”</p><p>“I hope so,” Scorpius sighed dramatically before eagerly taking Malfoy’s ring. It dangled off his finger when he slipped it on, but he still grinned happily at it. “You can adjust it, right, Mummy?”</p><p>Hermione ruffled his hair. “Maybe keep it safe in your treasure box for the time being, sweetheart. You’ll grow into that one day, too.”</p><p>“But, Mummy, that can take <em> ages </em>!”</p><p>“Do you remember what happened to the last ring you had? You gave it to the gnomes in the Weasleys’ garden. Mal—Draco might’ve given it to you, but it means a lot to him. Best not risk losing it.”</p><p>“I won’t give it to the gnomes, Mr. Draco,” Scorpius turned appalled silver eyes at the man crouching before him again. “I swear it. I found that old ring outside Uncle Georgie’s shop. It wasn’t special like this one.”</p><p> Malfoy twisted his family’s crest around Scorpius’ finger twice before saying, “My </p><p>father gave me this,” he didn’t pause, but he still looked up at Hermione like he was expecting the same thing she had been waiting for—outrage, confusion, or wrath. Her hands trembled at her heavily-guarded secret staring straight at her, the intensity of the moon in that narrowed gaze, but she pressed her lips into a thin line, holding her breath. “It stopped being special to me a long time ago, but if it’s yours now, Scorpius, I’m happy I kept it with me all these years.”</p><p><em> Greedy</em>.</p><p>Just as <em> coward </em> had etched down her spine, Hermione felt each letter of <em> greedy </em> carve itself into the soft, tender flesh of her throat. </p><p>Had she truly kept Malfoy’s identity secret from her—<em>their</em>—child because she feared for his safety? While she had, as an Auror and once an unwanted member of their society, seen what grieving, mad people did to those they considered guilty and monstrous, Hermione had also known that Scorpius was well protected. Not just by her; there were other Aurors, hellions, and chosen-family members who would, without a doubt, stand between danger and Scorpius’ bright-eyed innocence to make sure it remained whole and blinding. Grudgingly, she could also admit that Harry had reason to be wary of the Malfoys and the blood on their hands and the ghosts in their cellar, but hadn’t Hermione once seen past that to let Draco in? Hadn’t she seen his remorse, pain, and rage, but still believed that flicker of light he wanted to let die was far more transcendent than all the things he could not change? </p><p>
  <em> Take your knickers off, Granger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Come for me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I never wanted you to die.  </em>
</p><p>After all these years, she could still feel his grip on her hip, the bite of his teeth on her skin, and his body tremble when she first slid her fingers through his hair. Once Malfoy had closed the classroom door behind him, Hermione had known she would have to take this gritty, glorious moment and chain it beneath the shadows inside her mind. She would have to let it rot there until it turned into tissue and a memory she wouldn’t be able to recall once time progressed. </p><p>But she never got the chance to secure the restraints around it—not only because she continued to feel the contradiction of his body against hers, all freezing uncertainty and scorching need, but their unplanned union had resulted in Scorpius, too.</p><p>She had gotten to her knees to beg the Minister for Magic to let Malfoy free, she had even sunk fingernails into Harry’s collarbones to demand he fight against the life sentence, but it had all been driven out of her own greed. </p><p>Malfoy had restarted the fire in her chest and she needed him to contain the blaze. </p><p>Deciding to stack brick after brick around that furious, gnawing flame, hoping the barrier would douse it, hoping everything smelling, tasting, and feeling like Draco Malfoy would turn to ash, Hermione made the choice to keep the truth not only from prying, unforgiving eyes, but the wholesome grey of her—<em>their</em>—son’s, too. </p><p>Greed had kept her from telling Scorpius about the father that currently stared at him like he was far more radiant and magnificent than the stars that composed his name.</p><p>“Malfoy,” Hermione gasped, stealing his focus from their son, cool silver melting in a way that reminded her of when she allowed him to have what was left of herself, back when he allowed himself the weakness (or the strength) to slip inside to claim it. “Tell him. Tell him you’re his—”</p><p>“Uncle Harry!” Scorpius clutched the ring in his tiny fist before darting toward the Floo. He wasted no time in launching himself at Harry, complete faith that despite the bags his uncle carried, he would be caught before he met any hard surface. “Look at what Mr. Draco gave me!”</p><p>Hermione took a few steps back like Harry could see she had every intention of being consumed by the wildfire she spent years trying to reduce to unthreatening embers. </p><p>Narrowing emerald eyes at her and Malfoy, Harry plastered a grin on his mouth when he then turned his attention at the excited little boy clinging to his side. “Careful not to gamble it off to those garden gnomes, Scorp. Remember what happened to the last ring you had?”</p><p>“Teddy and me wanted to see their treasures,” Scorpius mumbled with a pout. Then, bringing Malfoy’s ring to his chest, he happily announced, “But this one’s special! I’m gonna keep it forever—oh, Uncle Harry, do you know Mr. Draco? Mummy said he’s her friend like you’re her friend.”</p><p>“Doubt that,” Harry scoffed, but quickly replaced his irritation when Hermione glared at him. “Anyway, you know what today is?”</p><p>“Thursday!”</p><p>“Which means?”</p><p>“Mac and cheese!” Scorpius exclaimed as he reached his free hand into one of the bags Harry was holding. “Did you bring the crisps to crush on top of our bowls, Uncle Harry? The kind Mummy hates and we have to hide from her?”</p><p>Harry let out a loud laugh, pressing a kiss on the side of Scorpius’ forehead. “You’ll never make it as an Auror, Scorp. You can’t keep a secret at all.”</p><p>“I can, too! I never told Mummy about that time she was sleeping and we snuck off to Honeydukes to buy—”</p><p>“Mummy’s a bit cross with me right now, kid. Maybe don’t tell her I sneak sweets to you, hmm?”</p><p>Hermione rolled her eyes, clearing her throat to find her voice again, but taming the fury she still felt toward her best friend. “You’re not as sneaky as you think, Harry. And no crisps. Broccoli on the side, got it?” Both Scorpius and Harry made identical expressions of disgust. “I mean it, or Thursday’s mac and cheese will turn into Fleur’s vegan casserole.”</p><p>“Mr. Draco, are you gonna stay? Uncle Harry always makes extra!”</p><p>Malfoy clenched his hands into fists before shoving them into the pockets of his trousers. Hermione could see rage once again sprout like wings from the expanse of his back, looking every bit the Angel of Death she had seen back at the Ministry. She wondered if Harry’s appearance would finally cause those wings to expand, stirring up chaos and destruction, but Malfoy surprised her by smiling that same bright, warm smile that had rendered her speechless when he first directed it at their son.</p><p>“Unfortunately, I have somewhere else I need to be,” Malfoy told him, something like honesty lacing the words, like he was truly upset about having to part ways with Scorpius. “Maybe next time, okay?”</p><p>Their son deflated a little. “Okay.”</p><p>“Draco can stop by later on in the week,” Hermione instantly said, loathing the way both father and child dimmed at the brief encounter coming to a close. “You can show him the other seashells your grandad helped you get. Would you like that, sweetheart?”</p><p>Nodding fervently, Scorpius cast a giant grin at Malfoy. “You can help me pick a castle for Grandad, Mr. Draco! I always build one when Mummy and me go visit him and Nan.”</p><p>Harry tossed Scorpius up into a sturdier embrace before heading to the kitchen. “My mac and cheese isn’t free, you know? Last time you butchered grating the cheese, so how about today you help me...”</p><p>“Malfoy—?”</p><p>“You won’t keep him from me, Granger,” he snarled when they were alone. “Do you understand me?”</p><p>Hermione fought the shiver racing up her spine. She didn’t know if she was tempted to challenge him because she had never been one to take threats without putting up her fists, wand or not, or because the part of her that remembered the feel of him on top of her wanted to see what he would do next. </p><p><em> Greedy </em> stung fresh against the delicate flesh of her throat, but the <em> mother </em> scabbing above her heart burned as a reminder of what she was first. What she had to be first.</p><p>“I told you about Scorpius for a reason,” her tone was unwavering, strong, fierce, “but the moment our son isn’t safe knowing you, Malfoy, you will crawl back into the cell I thought you’d die in. Do <em> you </em> understand <em> me </em>?”</p><p>Malfoy stepped closer, destroying the safe distance she had put between them. Like at the Ministry, he ran his thumb against her bottom lip, his molten gaze zeroed in on the plush pink of her mouth. He leaned in and she held her breath when the taste of bergamot and crisp apples pooled on her tongue.</p><p>He hovered his mouth over hers, but he never allowed her old memory to be replaced by a new one. Instead, in a cruel whisper that tickled her lips, he said, “When did you start believing I was a monster, Granger? After I took your virginity, or after finding out I took Yaxley’s life?”</p><p>Tears spilled past Hermione’s lashes, but Malfoy was already disappearing in emerald flames to see them. </p><p>
  <em> There’s nothing left of me, Malfoy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Harder. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t blame you. </em>
</p><p>
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